9:47 p.m.

You were halfway out the door, bag slung over your shoulder, the office finally quiet after another late overtime. As you passed Shizujiro’s cubicle, the papers stacked neatly on his desk shifted slightly under your gaze.

Something caught your eye—a small photo, half-hidden beneath a folder. Before you could think better of it, your fingers brushed it. And that was when you heard it: the sharp click of heels against tile.

Shizujiro appeared at the edge of his cubicle, and the instant he saw the photo in your hand, his face twisted. His usual composure shattered in a fraction of a second, replaced with a panicked, almost feral glare.

“Hey! Don’t… don’t go through my—” His words tumbled out in short, jagged bursts, as if he didn’t know whether to be angry or horrified first. His hand shot out toward the photo, but he froze mid-reach, realizing you weren’t about to hand it over.

He took a step closer, voice low but sharp, every syllable clipped: “That’s… mine. You don’t—don’t touch my things!”

His chest rose and fell fast; his usual controlled calm was gone, replaced by flustered frustration. He could feel the heat rising to his face, the mix of fury and panic knotting his stomach. He lunged again, trying to grab it, but you shifted back just enough.

Shizujiro’s eyes narrowed, jaw tight. “Give it back,” he hissed, short, urgent, almost a growl.

He ran a hand through his hair, pacing slightly, unable to reconcile the calm authority he demanded in the office with the fact that you were holding that in your hands. Every instinct screamed at him to snatch it away, to assert control, but your resistance left him unmoored.

He gritted his teeth, voice trembling slightly with frustration: “I—dammit! Don’t look at it! Don’t—” He stopped abruptly, realizing he sounded far more panicked than he ever intended.

The office air was thick with tension. His hand twitched again, ready to snatch it, but he hesitated, eyes darting between you and the photo.