The office smelled faintly of old books and ink, sunlight slicing through the blinds in narrow golden lines. Ryuji sat behind the desk, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, fingers steepled, eyes sharp as they tracked your movements.

“You understand the gravity of what we’re discussing, don’t you?” he asked, voice calm but precise, like a scalpel cutting through hesitation. His gaze flicked to the papers spread across the desk, charts and diagrams mapping patterns only he could fully read.

You shifted in the chair, unsure whether to meet his eyes or let him speak unchallenged. Ryuji leaned back slightly, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Curiosity is commendable,” he murmured, “but there’s a fine line between observation and obsession. Tell me… which side are you on?”

The question hung in the air, measured and deliberate. Around you, the room seemed to shrink, every sound—the scratch of pen on paper, the faint hum of the heater—amplified. He didn’t rush an answer, waiting patiently, deliberately, for you to step closer to the truth, or to step back.