The conference room smelled like desperation and citrus-scented air freshener. A tactical choice on Naomi's part, probably. Subtle psychological warfare. Katsuki would've preferred the sting of bleach—it warned people that mistakes would be scrubbed from memory and employment records.
He stepped in first, Kai trailing behind, sleeves casually rolled, like this was a game show and not the bleakest use of time Katsuki had endured in recent memory.
Naomi was already seated at the far end of the long table, tablet in hand, coffee untouched. Her expression was one of eternal resignation. She didn't even look up.
Kai did, though. "You ready?" he asked, all lazy charm.
Katsuki snorted. "Should be easy. Everyone's replaceable."
Naomi made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort and a sigh having an identity crisis.
The first candidate walked in precisely on time, which was, somehow, already a red flag.
She introduced herself as Minako, smiled too widely, and had listed "organization" and "sunshine energy" as her top strengths. Katsuki gave her five minutes before she cried.
At minute three, she called Kai "Mr. Sato-sama."
Katsuki's jaw twitched. Not because of the honorifics. Because Kai preened.
"Tell me," Kai said, voice syrup-slick. "How would you handle a situation where you had to deliver bad news to a partner?"
Minako blinked. "Like… if the printer was jammed again?"
Kai turned slowly to look at Katsuki, whose dead-eyed stare could've curdled milk.
His phone buzzed.
Katsuki looked.
Not her.
He slammed the phone face-down on the table.
Minako startled so hard her pen flew out of her hand.
The next candidate was somehow worse. He wore a cravat and introduced himself as "Yuu-sensei," despite applying for a secretarial position. His résumé was laminated, color-coded, and bound with a decorative ribbon.
"I have memorized all the articles in the Civil Code," he declared.
"Have you memorized how to book domestic flights?" Naomi asked blandly, without looking up.
Yuu-sensei flinched like she'd stabbed him with Article 709.
Buzz.
Katsuki looked.
Still not her.
He slammed the phone again, harder this time.
Naomi looked up slowly, like a dragon stirring from its nap.
"Take a break," she said.
Kai was already standing.
-----
The hallway outside the conference room was quieter, lined with flickering fluorescent lights that had somehow evaded maintenance requests for months. Naomi crossed her arms, gaze locked on Katsuki like she was debating which part of his soul to dismantle first.
"You know you could just call her," she said, voice flat.
Katsuki didn't look up. "Why would I do that?"
"Because she loved that job," Naomi snapped. "And you're not the only one suffering from her absence."
"I didn't do anything wrong," he replied coldly. "She's the one who walked out."
"She walked out because you sabotaged her ex like a petty Bond villain," Kai muttered under his breath.
Katsuki ignored him. "She's replaceable."
Buzz.
He looked.
Still not her.
The phone cracked against the floor this time, the screen spiderwebbing like it, too, had finally reached its emotional limit.
Kai winced. Naomi just blinked.
Kai mouthed, hopeless.
Naomi didn't argue.
-----
The last candidate arrived just as they were considering spontaneously combusting to avoid the rest of the afternoon. She stepped into the room with the kind of confidence people couldn't fake—back straight, black pencil skirt immaculate, hair in a severe twist that made her look like she filed people and lawsuits.
"Aoki Misuzu," she said crisply. "It's a pleasure."
Kai raised a brow as he read over her résumé. Tokyo University grad. Fluent in English, Mandarin, and unshakable calm. Spent the last decade working in corporate litigation firms in Osaka and Tokyo, managing partners known for public meltdowns and overdue alimony payments.
She was… average-looking, if one was being cruel. But she was also composed. Polished. Not a single hair out of place. She made her beige suit look like armor.
Katsuki leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, letting Kai take the lead.
"How do you handle high-pressure environments?" Kai asked, watching her with open curiosity.
"I don't react emotionally," she said smoothly. "I respond with strategy."
Katsuki raised one brow. Finally. A response that didn't involve laminators or chakras.
Naomi scribbled a note.
"What would you do if you had to manage two urgent deadlines for two different partners?" Katsuki asked, tone sharp.
Aoki didn't blink. "Triage based on client priority and legal implications. Delegate non-essential tasks. Reconfirm the expected deliverables with each partner. Then execute."
Katsuki nodded once. Crisp. Precise. Efficient. No visible red flags. Yet.
Kai leaned back, laced his fingers together. "And if one of those partners was Hasegawa-san, and he'd given you five hours of work to be completed in thirty minutes?"
She smiled faintly. "Then I would ask if he prefers coffee or tea while I save his reputation."
Kai laughed. Naomi looked almost impressed.
Katsuki didn't smile. But he tapped his pen against the desk, once. "You're hired."
Aoki bowed. "Thank you. I look forward to starting immediately."
She left with the same efficiency she'd entered.
Kai waited until the door closed, then glanced sideways. "See? That wasn't so hard."
Katsuki reached for the pen again.
"She's replaceable," he muttered.
Neither Kai nor Naomi answered.
But the silence that followed was deafening.
-----
Aoki arrived at exactly 8:30 a.m., sharp and composed, her heels clicking evenly against the polished office floors. Her outfit was pristine, neutral tones with just enough structure to suggest she ironed it twice. She greeted the front desk by name, bowed to Naomi like a diplomat, and placed Katsuki's coffee—black, no sugar, no commentary—on his desk before he could ask for it.
She even used coasters.
Katsuki observed this silently, arms crossed, watching through the glass wall as she moved like a perfectly programmed assistant: efficient, unobtrusive, and entirely unbothered by the hurricane she had just replaced.
No chaos. No explosions. No crumpled post-its with aggressive doodles. No whiplash tone shifts between deadly competence and unhinged rants about printer toner.
Peace.
It should have felt like relief.
Kai strolled in ten minutes late, holding a kombucha and looking like he hadn't had a problem in his life. He glanced at Aoki, who was now typing furiously with a spreadsheet open on one monitor and the firm's calendar on the other.
"She's… fine," Kai murmured as he leaned beside Katsuki's desk, watching her with vague amusement. "Efficient. Articulate. Calculated."
Katsuki didn't look up from his screen. "She does her job."
"Sure." Kai sipped his drink. "She's just not as good as her."
Katsuki scoffed. "I'd prefer an emotionally stable secretary to someone who flips off their laptop mid-schedule."
Kai grinned.
That grin—the kind that always meant something was coming. Something Katsuki wouldn't like.
Like the bastard he was, Kai reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and hit a contact with zero hesitation.
Katsuki's jaw tightened.
Kai lifted the phone to his ear, loud enough to make sure every syllable reached the corner office. "Hey, Sukehiro. What's up?"
Katsuki's pen froze mid-signature.
He didn't look over. But Kai could feel the glare burning a hole through the side of his head.
"Yeah, no, I haven't heard from them yet," Kai said casually, spinning one of Katsuki's very expensive pens between his fingers. "But I'll let you know once I hear of an opportunity."
He hung up without waiting for more. Slid the phone back into his pocket like it was nothing.
Katsuki stared at his monitor, unmoving.
Then, flatly, "You're helping her find a job?"
Kai didn't flinch. He only smiled wider.
"Why not? She's brilliant."
Katsuki didn't answer.
He sighed once, quietly. Then picked up his pen and pretended to work.
Kai didn't call him out for it. He just leaned back, smirking, and let the silence simmer.
Outside the glass wall, Aoki continued typing.
Perfect. Efficient. Harmless.
Katsuki didn't glance at her once.
-----
By 6:03 p.m., the office had finally emptied out, the silence crawling back into place like it was reclaiming territory. Naomi had left with a pointed look that Katsuki ignored. Kai had smirked the whole way out. Aoki had given her signature shallow bow, collected her clipboard, and exited exactly on time—no more, no less.
Of course she had.
Katsuki didn't like small talk, didn't like uncertainty, didn't like anyone hovering around his space without purpose. In theory, Aoki was perfect.
In practice, she was sterile.
She hadn't once asked if he wanted an earlier flight booked for Osaka. Hadn't insulted his handwriting. Hadn't threatened to staple a court schedule to his forehead if he forgot a client meeting again. She didn't make weird noises when she typed. Didn't mutter under her breath about Kafka-level filing systems. Didn't correct his grammar in post-it notes with tiny, smug smiley faces.
It was... quiet.
And Katsuki hated it.
He sat back in his chair, glaring at his new phone like it was personally responsible for his current irritation. Which it was, to be fair. His old one had suffered catastrophic screen failure yesterday. Glass doesn't like being introduced to steel and rage.
The new device was sleek, efficient, soulless. Like Aoki.
He stared at the blank message screen, cursor blinking like it was mocking him.
Message Draft #1:
You sabotaged your own career by being emotionally reactive. I'm not responsible for your poor judgment.
Too gaslight-y. Even for him.
Delete.
Message Draft #2:
If I did half the shit you've done, I'd be in prison. You're welcome, by the way.
Not a great opening line if he ever wanted her to come back. Which he didn't. Obviously.
Delete.
Message Draft #3:
Congratulations, you've been replaced. She knows how to shut up and file things in silence. A dream.
That one almost got sent. His thumb hovered over the screen. But it rang hollow. Too smug. And smugness implied indifference. Which he had. Obviously.
Delete.
Message Draft #4:
You said you love this job and that I can be an asshole all I want and you wouldn't leave. Liar.
He stared at that one a little longer.
Then locked the screen without deleting it.
It was almost funny. Not ha-ha funny. More existential crisis in a glass office funny.
Katsuki leaned back in his chair and pulled up his cloud gallery. He scrolled past screenshots of contracts, court documents, and a blurry image Kai had sent him last week of someone attempting to parallel park a Ferrari like they'd never seen a gear shift before.
And then—there she was.
Hana, holding that damn Dassai bottle like it was a national treasure. Her curls frizzed out around her face in soft defiance of the humidity, cheeks pink, smile wide and shameless. Peace sign up like they were drunk college kids and not two professionals on the verge of emotional implosion.
She'd made him take it. Her phone had died. She wanted to send it to her dad. Her brothers.
Katsuki had never deleted it.
He looked at it now, thumb lingering over the image.
She'd trusted him, that night. Not with her past—he already knew she hated revisiting it. But she'd let him see the soft parts of it. The vulnerable, unfiltered corners.
And what had he done?
Sabotaged someone for her. Argued with her like she was an adversary, not a person. Watched her walk out and still pretended it didn't matter.
Katsuki exhaled, jaw tight.
"You're stupid," he muttered.
Mostly at himself.
The screen dimmed. He let it. Let the silence return, coiling around him like smoke.
He didn't send anything. Didn't delete the drafts either.
He just sat there.
Alone. In a spotless office. With the perfect replacement.
And a photo of the one person who'd made this place feel like it had a pulse.