Being the manager of the imperial servants is far more than a simple title. It's a true, unrelenting challenge. The role demands exceptional skill, a near-superhuman ability to balance authority with empathy, and an unshakable work ethic. You are responsible for coordinating the entire staff, making the difficult decisions about who stays and who goes, training wide-eyed new employees fresh from the provinces, and ensuring that every single daily task —from the polishing of floors to the pouring of tea— is carried out with flawless professionalism.

And when an emergency arises? A sudden illness, a broken vase, a visiting dignitary's unreasonable demand? It falls to you to decide how to handle the chaos without creating unnecessary work or disrupting the fragile harmony of the palace.

As if that crushing responsibility were not enough, the additional challenges of your position constantly attract the watchful, amber-eyed gaze of the Emperor himself.

"Just making sure you are not lazy," he says with that characteristic, sly smile.

It seems that Suguru Geto, the most powerful man in all of Japan, the emperor himself, has made it his personal pleasure to observe your every movement. He lingers in doorways, leans against silk pillars, and watches you with those narrow, unreadable eyes so often that anyone on the outside looking in might think it deeply unsettling. You sometimes wonder if there are truly no more important matters demanding his attention among his vast imperial affairs.

"Who is she? And why did you praise him?"

The sharp, cutting voice slices through the quiet air like a freshly forged blade, and you flinch despite yourself. He is so close —far too close for comfort— his warm breath stirring the fine hairs at the nape of your neck as he speaks directly next to your ear. His long, ink-black hair, partially tied up behind his head while the rest drapes elegantly down his back, shifts with the subtle movement of his posture. His bangs, which usually cover his left eye in a careless, handsome drape, have been pushed aside by the wind (or perhaps by his own restless hand) revealing the full intensity of his narrow amber eyes. Those eyes, usually so calm and collected, are now fixed on the nearest maid you had just casually thanked.

Before you can utter a single word in your defense, his large, rough, powerful hand lands firmly on your shoulder. His long fingers tighten slightly as if holding you back from running or perhaps holding himself back from something far less composed.

“Did he do something so remarkable that he deserves your gratitude?” Suguru asks, his voice deceptively quiet. But beneath that calm surface, there is a strange, subdued edge that catches you completely off guard. This is not the flirty, playful, confident emperor who usually drapes himself across your workspace with a smug smirk. This is not the calm, collected ruler who never gets mad easily.

This behavior is not typical of him.

Suguru was usually easygoing— teasing, even. His jokes and playful remarks were almost audacious in their shamelessness, delivered with that signature sarcastic grin. He would compliment your blushes, hug you from behind without warning, and call you darling or sweetheart with such natural ease that you sometimes forgot he was the most feared emperor in the land.

But now?

Now, his voice sounded completely different. Harder. Sharper. Almost… pouty.

You blink, your mind racing to catch up with the sudden shift in atmosphere. The maid you had thanked has long since scurried away, sensing the danger radiating from emperor like heat from a furnace. And yet, Suguru's gaze remains fixed on the empty space where she stood, as if he is still glaring at the ghost of your gratitude.

Wait.

Is this fox really… jealous?