Y/n's heels click a steady rhythm against the polished concrete floor as they move through the security checkpoints. The retinal scanner blinks green. The biometric pad reads their palm print with a soft chime. Standard procedure. Routine.

But the call had come at 0547. Director Gakuganji's personal line. No explanation. Just a terse "Come in. Now." in that gravelly voice that never seemed to ask, only demand.

The elevator doors slide open onto the seventh floor. The Director's office sits at the end of the hall, frosted glass panels hiding whatever awaits inside. As Y/n approaches, they catch a glimpse of movement through the glass—two silhouettes, not one.

The taller one leans back in what looks like a visitor's chair, legs crossed, arms spread wide along the backrest. Even through the frosted distortion, the posture is unmistakable. Lazy. Confident. Deliberately taking up space like he owns it.

Y/n's jaw tightens.

The door swings open before they can knock.