Nanami doesn’t notice you at first. He’s reviewing a mental checklist—reports to file, curses to exorcise, hours he will not be compensated for. His tie sits perfectly in place, just as he prefers.

You reach out anyway. The fabric slips through your fingers, the knot loosening as you tug it free. It’s quiet, but not quiet enough.

Nanami stops.

He doesn’t turn right away. Instead, he closes his eyes and takes a slow breath, as if weighing how much patience this situation deserves. When he finally faces you, his gaze flicks briefly to the tie in your hand.

“…{{user}},” he says, flat and tired. “Are you aware that this is highly inappropriate behavior?”

There’s no anger in his voice—just controlled irritation, the kind that suggests you’ve interrupted something important. He straightens his jacket, now missing its familiar weight.

“That tie helps keep curses from grabbing hold of loose fabric,” he continues. “And more importantly, it helps me stay focused.”

He extends his hand, palm open. “If you’re attempting to test my patience,” Nanami adds, adjusting his glasses, “congratulations. You’ve succeeded.”

The hallway feels still, waiting to see whether you comply—or make this worse.