The past week had been the same. Grey skies, sudden showers, and a wind that carried a heaviness that never left.
I dragged myself through the hours, finishing reports, answering emails, doing everything without making mistakes.
That day, when I finally handed my work to HR, she scanned through the pages carefully. Her eyes softened, and then she looked at me.
"Good work, Kenji-kun," she said, her voice calm but warmer than usual. "You've… changed lately. In a positive way. Honestly, I have expectations for you now."
As she spoke, my focus slipped.
Her lips moved slowly, naturally tinted with a faint pink gloss. The way they shaped each word held my attention more than her words themselves.
Her black hair framed her face in waves, not perfectly neat but deliberate enough to look effortless, strands falling against her cheek.
Her blouse was tight today—too tight, maybe—white fabric stretching just enough to reveal her form underneath, buttons straining slightly at her chest. Her perfume was subtle but sharp, a mix of jasmine and something darker, something that lingered.
My throat went dry, and I stared too long.
"Kenji… Kenji!"
I blinked, startled.
"Yes, ma'am. Sorry. I'm listening."
She frowned, narrowing her eyes in suspicion, then exhaled softly. "Okay… here. Do this report. And then go home."
I took the papers obediently, my face innocent as always.
"It's important. I'll be with you till then," she added, her voice firm, yet softer near the end.
I sighed quietly and nodded.
The work dragged me till eight. The office was empty by then, the silence only broken by my pen scratching across the pages. When I handed it back, she smiled—not the professional kind, but something lighter, almost personal.
"You did well. Come on, I'll give you a lift," she said, picking up her bag.
I hesitated, then accepted.
Inside the elevator, the air felt different. She stood close, scrolling her phone with one hand while the other held her folder against her chest. The soft light of the lift highlighted the curve of her jaw, the sharpness of her nose, the faint shine of her lips.
Halfway down, she suddenly tapped the button for the top floor.
"I have to grab something from the storage first. It won't take long."
We stepped into the storage floor. It was quiet, too quiet—rows of tables stacked with files, old chairs pushed against the walls, dust collecting on books that no one had touched for years. She moved with practiced familiarity, collecting what she needed.
Then, as we returned, the elevator doors shut… and nothing happened.
The lights flickered. The hum stopped.
"What—what's going on?" she muttered, pressing the buttons. Nothing.
"It's not working?" I asked, though I knew the answer.
"Call someone."
I pulled out my phone. No bars.
She checked hers too, shaking her head. "No network… damn it. Must be the weather again."
The silence pressed in.
We sighed almost together, our voices overlapping in the stillness.
Looking around, I noticed the dim light from the emergency bulb reflecting on the glass windows of the small office belonging to the storage manager. A chair, a desk, files scattered inside.
"Let's wait there," she said firmly.
We entered the office, the air stale with the smell of dust and paper. She sat down first, crossing her legs gracefully, folder resting on her lap. I sat opposite, the glass window behind me showing only the outline of the storm outside.
For the next hour, neither of us spoke much. The storm outside roared faintly, but inside the storage manager's office there was only the soft glow of the emergency bulb. Both Emi and I had our phones out, trying again and again to message someone, to load a page, to see even one bar of signal. Nothing.
She sat on one side of the desk, her brows furrowed, the tip of her finger tapping the screen every few seconds as if stubbornness could force the signal back. I sat on the other side, scrolling through an empty screen, pretending to be busy.
The minutes dragged. The air felt heavier the longer we stayed.
Suddenly, Emi's voice broke the silence.
"I'm hungry."
I looked up at her. "You are?"
She leaned back slightly in her chair, her hand resting over her stomach. "Yeah. What about you—do you have anything?"
I thought for a bit, unzipping my bag. After rummaging through notebooks and a pen case, I found a packet of cookies. The top was already torn, and half of it was gone.
"Yes… but it's half."
Emi frowned, her lips pressing together. For a moment, she looked like she might reject it, but then she sighed.
"Fine. Give it here."
I slid the packet across the desk. She opened it without hesitation, taking one cookie and biting into it with a kind of restrained hunger.
"I haven't eaten since morning," she said between bites. "This is my… second meal of the day."
"What? Why?" I asked, genuinely surprised.
She gave a small shrug, brushing crumbs off her lap. "You know how it is. Office work. Meetings, schedules, people waiting for you. If I stop for breakfast, I'll end up being late. As HR, I don't get that excuse."
I blinked. I had never thought about it. I only saw her walking through the halls, straight-backed, heels clicking against the floor, always looking composed.
"I never realized," I said softly. "It must have been hard for you. Always… being the leader."
Emi paused mid-bite, looking at me across the desk. Her expression wasn't mocking or dismissive—it was thoughtful, maybe even a little tired.
"You think so?" she asked.
"Yes." I nodded. "Everyone just sees you as… strict. Someone who gives orders, evaluates, decides. But… that must get lonely, right? Carrying that pressure all the time."
Her gaze lingered on me longer than before. Then she gave a quiet chuckle, though there wasn't much humor in it.
"Lonely, huh? That's… an interesting way to put it."
She leaned back, chewing slowly, her eyes drifting to the dusty ceiling.
"You're not wrong."
...
Our voices had faded, leaving only the sound of the rain outside. I glanced at my phone again—10 p.m. The screen glowed faintly, reminding me of how late it had become. Emi's phone had already gone dark, the battery drained, leaving her with nothing but silence in her hands.
She leaned back in the chair, arms folded, her expression tight. I could tell she was tired—her shoulders drooped slightly, and her usual sharpness was dulled by the weight of the long day.
"What should we do…?" she asked, her voice low, almost hesitant.
I looked around the dim room—the scattered files, the faint smell of dust, the single lamp in the corner that flickered faintly against the shadows. "What can we do?" I replied quietly. "Let's just… wait. That's the only logical thing."
For a moment, she just stared at me, surprised. I couldn't tell why—maybe because I said it so calmly, or maybe because she had expected me to panic the way she almost did.
"…You're strange, Kenji," she murmured finally, almost like she was speaking to herself.
Time stretched on. The rain hammered harder against the building, the sound echoing faintly through the walls. The temperature dropped little by little, the cold seeping into the room until even I could feel it creep up my arms. Emi rubbed her hands together and shifted in her seat, drawing her knees slightly closer.
The only light was from the lamp, casting a warm circle in the middle of the office. Beyond it, the shelves and furniture faded into shadow, shapes barely visible. It gave the room a strange, almost unreal feeling—as if we were cut off from the rest of the world, just two people sitting in a bubble of light surrounded by darkness.