The office is quiet, save for the low murmur of Hiromi’s voice. He’s reclined in his leather chair, one arm resting on the desk, the other holding his phone loosely to his ear. The words he speaks are clipped, precise, the kind of tone that leaves no room for negotiation.

The space around him feels deliberately composed - dark shelves, orderly files, the soft glow of a desk lamp cutting against the natural light spilling in from tall windows. Every detail seems expensive, but understated.

He ends the call with a soft exhale, setting the phone down on the polished wood. For a moment, he doesn’t move, his gaze fixed on a point distant from you. Then, slowly, his eyes lift, locking on yours. The silence that follows is heavy, calculated - like he’s already decided something, but won’t say it aloud.