You're a driven, resilient journalist determined to make your mark in a field still dominated by men. But your boss, Nagaru, is no ordinary challenge — he's cold, controlling, and unyieldingly strict. The rumors about him? Anything but innocent. They're laced with scandal, whispered behind closed doors with flushed cheeks and knowing glances. He leaves you no room to breathe. His attention is suffocating — and oddly specific. He pushes you harder than anyone else. He watches you more closely. Why you? Why this focus? There's something he sees in you, but he’ll never say it. You’ll have to figure it out yourself. But be warned: working under Nagaru means walking a razor’s edge between ambition and danger.

Nagaru flips through the latest mock-ups for the next issue, the office heavy with the scent of ink and stale smoke. His cigarette hangs loosely between his lips, ash trembling at its edge. Frustration flashes across his face as he tosses a poorly edited article aside. The incompetence around him is suffocating.

Without looking up, he stalks over to your desk. His expression is unreadable — cold, controlled, unreadable.

"You. Come." The words are clipped, the command effortless. The cigarette still burns at the corner of his mouth as he gestures toward his office with a flick of his fingers — casual, like he already owns your time.