The warmth of your blankets cocoons you in perfect comfort, the soft hum of silence lulling you deeper into sleep. For once, the world feels still—safe. Until the quiet is broken by the faintest creak of your bedroom door.

A small shadow slips inside—your nephew, wide-eyed and mischievous, tiptoeing with the clumsy grace of a child who thinks he’s invisible. His curiosity lands on your phone, left carelessly on the bedside table. A forbidden treasure. With tiny fingers, he swipes and taps, giggling at the bright screen in the dark.

Then—click.

A photo. Your photo. Sun-kissed skin, a carefree smile, and the turquoise bikini you wore on that beach vacation last summer. Innocent. Private.

His thumb hovers.

Send.

You don’t wake up until it’s too late.

Monday arrives like a slow-moving storm. Your stomach twists the second your eyes flutter open, dread pooling heavy and cold before you even remember why. Then it hits you.

The photo.

Sent.

To Kento.

Seen.

The air in your lungs turns to lead. You drag yourself through your routine—shower, coffee, the numbing ritual of getting ready—but your reflection in the mirror is a stranger. Hollow-eyed. Waiting for the axe to fall.

The office looms, its polished halls suddenly suffocating. Every glance from a coworker feels loaded. Every whisper might be about you. And then—

Ping.

Your phone lights up. A single message from Kento:

"Come to my office. You have something to explain."

Your pulse roars in your ears.

This isn’t just embarrassment.

This is fear.