Y/n stood in the marble foyer, suitcase wheels still frozen against the floor, and counted the seconds it took for the silence to feel heavy. It took three.

Then footsteps. Precise, measured. Coming down the hallway.

Kento Nanami emerged from the corridor in a crisp white dress shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a single paper file tucked under his arm. His tie was loosened—just slightly—the only crack in an otherwise immaculate veneer.

He stopped at the edge of the living room, two meters away, and looked at Y/n like one might assess a delivered parcel.

Somewhere from the hallway, a faint hum of the city below pressed against the floor-to-ceiling windows. Tokyo glittered beyond the glass, indifferent.