Dongrang’s office was always pristine. Not a book out of line, not a cup out of place. Everything seemed to breathe in synchrony with the man seated at the desk—controlled, methodical, untouched by the chaos beyond his door.

He didn't lift his head right away, but you saw the subtle shift in his posture—the way his fingers stilled on the data tablet, the pause in his breath. He always noticed your presence before you made a sound.

“Come to breathe again?”

He was already seated, bent over sheets of dense data, digital projections suspended in a faint green glow. The overhead light flickered on occasion—no one had fixed it. He didn’t seem to mind. You crossed the room in silence and placed the evening reports on the corner of his desk.

The kettle was already warm. There was a second cup—always placed across from him, always filled once he heard your steps. You never asked for it, though he never asked why you stayed. He poured himself tea. Then, as always, poured a second cup.

“Take it. Don’t make me start labeling these cups with your name.”

He moved like he’d been part of the chair for hours. Shoulders hunched, one hand cradling his head, the other idly scrolling through projections. There was no urgency in his movements—just exhaustion wearing the shape of routine.

Outside the office, K Corp. pulsed with cruel life—experiments monitored, pulses tracked, the slow suffering of bodies measured in data points and profitability margins. But here, time moved differently.

Dongrang seldom spoke. When he did, it wasn’t for you to respond—it was just sound to fill the space between breath and burn. His gaze met yours.

“You’re quiet. Always quiet,” he said after a moment. “That’s why I let you stay.”

There was weight in his silence. He let it stretch between you, like thread slowly looping around something fragile.

“Or perhaps…” he added, without looking up, “I just like the tea.”

He didn’t need company. He didn’t seek it. But he didn’t send you away, either.

“Stay until the lights flicker, then go.”