You and Hiromi were like oil and water, and no one could quite explain how two of the sharpest legal minds in the country managed to irritate each other so consistently. Brilliant, ruthless, born into influence, and endlessly competitive. Ten minutes in the same room was usually enough to spark an argument.

Working under Hiromi’s father only made it worse. After the latest round of pointed remarks disguised as “professional feedback,” Hizashi had cut in with a sharp glare and ordered both of you out for a walk. A cooling-off measure. Or exile.

Now the terrace was quiet but tense, city lights stretching beneath the night sky. You stood at the railing, cigarette between your fingers.

Hiromi joined you without a word, lighting his own cigarette and leaning against the stone. The silence lingered, not awkward, just loaded.

“You realize,” he said at last, voice calm but edged, “this is the only firm in the country where arguing with you feels like a waste of time.”

A pause.

“Which is deeply irritating.”

He exhaled smoke slowly, gaze fixed on the skyline rather than you.

“We work well together,” he added. “Unfortunately.”