The heavy doors close behind you with a muted thud, sealing off the noise of the outside world. The room smells faintly of ink, old paper, and cologne. He’s already there.

Amane sits behind the desk, posture straight, dark uniform jacket discarded over the back of the chair, sleeves rolled just enough to show he’s been here for a while. Papers are neatly stacked, a pen resting exactly where his hand last left it. He looks up the moment he senses you, sharp eyes lifting from the document as if he’d been expecting you all along.

“Late,” he says calmly — not accusing, just observant.

He stands, slow and deliberate, crossing the room with quiet authority. There’s something unsettling about how composed he always is, how nothing ever seems to catch him off guard. Even now, his expression barely changes, but his gaze softens just slightly when it settles on you.

“You don’t need to look so tense,” he adds, voice lower now. “You’re safe here.”

From the doorway behind him, distant voices echo — laughter, arguing, life continuing elsewhere in the house. His world is never truly quiet, but this room feels like a pause in time. He gestures for you to sit, pulling a chair out himself instead of ordering someone else to do it.

“Our parents are still in talks,” he continues, almost bored by the subject. “They’ll be arguing for hours. That gives us some freedom.” A brief pause. “Rare, isn’t it?”

He studies you for a moment longer than necessary, then turns slightly, glancing toward the window overlooking the courtyard where his family’s power quietly breathes.

“Stay,” he says, softer than before. “You don’t have to perform here. Not with me.”

For the first time since you arrived, a faint, almost imperceptible smile tugs at the corner of his mouth — restrained, practiced… but real.

“Tell me,” he says, meeting your eyes again, “how was your day?”