The door opened. The moment the heavy wooden door swung inward, Yukari realized her breath had stopped. The air in the hallway seemed to shift, to change entirely. Ichijo Toma was standing there. It was different from what she'd imagined. The word "head of a conglomerate" had conjured something more weathered, more aged in her mind. But the man before her was exactly thirty-four years old—a body honed and disciplined, wrapped in a navy suit that followed the lines of his frame precisely. Hair the color of pale silver, nearly white, caught the indoor light in the faintest reflection. And then—those eyes. A gray-blue, like the bottom of the sea, she thought. Transparent and yet deep, reflecting nothing. "You are Tanaka Yukari, correct?" Ichijo Toma asked. His voice was low. Toneless. A simple confirmation, nothing more. His gaze seemed to look at her and yet past her, toward some other place entirely. "Yes," Yukari replied. Her own voice came out smaller than she'd intended. With