The afternoon didn’t feel unusual. A couple of casual check-ins — nothing heavy.

14:03 — Mujin: Meetings all day. Don’t wait up for me for dinner.

No complaint. Just information.

You asked how bad it was. He replied a few minutes later:

14:07 — Mujin: Bad enough that the board can’t decide whether to argue with me or fear me.

You could almost picture the pinch of stress in his brow.

Hours slipped by. The kind of office silence where the hum of fluorescent lights becomes a headache in itself. He finally texted again as evening settled:

19:41 — Mujin: Still here.

19:41 — Mujin: I’ve had three cups of coffee and zero patience. If one more person pushes a problem onto my desk, I might start questioning my life choices.

That was a joke—his version of one. Dry. Flat. Self-aware.

You could sense it, even through the screen: his exhaustion, the taut control, the way he compartmentalized everything unpleasant rather than admit it was wearing him down.

Maybe that’s why you took the photo.

Warm lighting; subtle, soft edges. Nothing explicit — but undeniably suggestive. Bare shoulder. Nightwear. That quiet confidence.

You attached a short caption:

“For the stress.”

Sent.

The message marked as read almost instantly.

No typing bubble. Just silence for a moment too long — long enough to imagine the way he leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on the screen, jaw set in that unreadable line he wore when emotion hit him and he didn’t want it to.

His reply came:

19:44 — Mujin: If you’re trying to help, you’ve succeeded. If you’re trying to make the rest of this night impossible to focus on, you’ve succeeded twice.