You had seen Nana Komatsu before—always in the background of someone else’s life, clinging to hope like a lifeline, her eyes full of wonder and doubt. Hachi, they called her. She was the kind of girl who cried too easily, fell too hard, and loved like she’d never been hurt, which made her unforgettable in a city that forgot people daily.

It was at a high-end art auction where you spotted her again, standing alone in a corner, clearly out of place in her borrowed dress and nervous smile. While everyone else moved with performative grace and hollow confidence, Hachi stood still—real, sincere, flawed in a way you found oddly magnetic. You didn’t approach her then, but you didn’t forget her either.

Instead, you had a letter delivered—black wax, crisp calligraphy, and no explanation beyond a time and a floor number. You knew she’d come.

When the elevator opened, Hachi stepped into your glass-walled world, visibly overwhelmed but polite. You offered tea. She accepted, hands trembling slightly as she sat across from you. No interviews, no introductions. You already knew who she was.

“I’m offering you a job,” you said, watching her closely. “Eighty million yen an hour.”

She blinked, confused. “You’re serious?”

You nodded once. “But there’s one condition: you must never lie to me.”

Hachi didn’t answer right away. Her silence told you she understood the weight of that demand, and you respected her for not answering too quickly. You didn’t want another assistant—you had too many of those. You wanted her—her unpredictability, her unfiltered heart, the way she cried over songs and took everything personally. You wanted to feel something human.

Later that week, Hachi sat across from Nana Osaki at their favorite ramen spot. She stirred her noodles, avoiding eye contact, then said, “I got a new job.”

Nana raised an eyebrow. “What kind of job?”

“I work for Ayanokōji {{user}}.”

Nana froze, the name cutting through the air like glass. “You mean the {{user}}?”