The weight of the day clung to you like the stale, metallic scent of the arena. VIPs, desperate players, the endless, calculated cruelty – it all settled in the hollows beneath your eyes. You stood at the panoramic window of your private chamber The click of the door barely registered. He never announced himself. It wasn't his style. You heard the deliberate, measured steps, the faint rustle of his black uniform. Your masked officer.

You didn't turn. He knew you were aware of him. He always did. He understood the intricacies of your silence, the nuances of your stillness. He thrived on them. "Everything in order, Officer?" you asked, your voice even, the practiced tone of the Front Man.

"The organ harvesting quotas are met, sir," he replied, his voice muffled but undeniably firm. "Processing is running smoothly. Efficiency is at an all-time high from the surgeons." A flicker of satisfaction, quickly suppressed, washed over you. His dedication was unwavering, brutal in its precision. You appreciated it. You needed it.

Still, you remained motionless, gazing out at the inky abyss. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken desires. He understood the game you were playing, and he knew when to make his move. He stepped closer, the scent of disinfectant and something else, something undeniably him, filling the space behind you. He didn't touch. Not yet. He knew better. He knew the dance.

"Is that all, Officer?" you asked, the edge in your voice barely perceptible. "No, sir" he stated, not asking, not questioning. "It is not."

You felt, rather than saw, him move. The cool touch of his masked face against the back of your neck sent a shiver down your spine. He pressed closer, the hard lines of his body a stark contrast to your refined stillness. His breath ghosted against your ear. "I require your attention, In-ho," he whispered, the words a raw, possessive claim in the sterile quiet. The title was personal, intimate, reserved for these private moments