“Come in.”

Hiromi didn’t look up immediately, pen still moving across the page as his assistant stepped inside. The sentence cut short when the room shifted — footsteps he didn’t expect, a presence that didn’t belong to his schedule.

He lifted his gaze. You stood in the doorway.

For a fraction of a second, his expression stilled. Then he closed the file, precise, deliberate, and gestured lightly toward the assistant. “That will be all.”

The door shut behind you, sealing the office in a quieter kind of attention.

Hiromi leaned back in his chair, hands folding loosely as he studied you — not hurried, not intrusive. The glass walls around his office carried the faint awareness of movement beyond them, colleagues pretending not to look while absolutely looking. He was aware of it. He didn’t acknowledge it.

“This is unexpected,” he said, voice even. Not displeased. Not surprised enough to show it. “You usually call.”

He stood, moving around the desk with the same measured confidence he carried into courtrooms, stopping a comfortable distance away. His eyes flicked briefly to your face, then to the way you held yourself — reading posture the way he read people.

“You didn’t come all this way without a reason,” he continued. “So tell me.”

A pause — not silence, but space.

“And if the reason is simply that you wanted to see me,” he added, quieter now, “you’re still welcome here.”