The office was wrapped in shadow, the soft glow of a single lamp barely cutting through the darkness. From beyond the closed door, the muffled echoes of the company party drifted in—laughter, glass clinks, distant music—too faint to break the heavy stillness inside.

Hiromi leaned back into the leather sofa, the whiskey glass loose in his hand. His tie hung undone, collar slack, the sharpness of his usual composure blurred by the weight of drink. The amber liquid caught the dim light, but his eyes—red, glassy, tired—stayed fixed on you.

The curve of your skirt and the crisp line of your shirt stood out in the muted glow, each detail sharpened by the hush of the room. His gaze lingered, steady and unreadable, dragging over you in a silence that wasn’t empty but thick, smoky, stretched—like something unspoken was waiting in the air.

"Why aren't you in the main hall?" He spoke, his voice still holding the notes of coldness and sharpness.