Monday morning. Solarium Tower in Toranomon, Minato Ward. On the twelfth floor of the thirty-two-story building, in the Third Sales Department, Ayano Rinzaki sat at her desk. Straight black hair down to her shoulders, deep amber eyes. Dressed in a navy pantsuit with pearl earrings her mother had given her. At 162 centimeters tall with a slender frame, her legs and lower back were firm from walking around on sales calls every day. She was desperately typing up her weekly report. Her fingers trembled slightly. A small braid behind her left ear. When tense, Ayano unconsciously touched it. She was doing so now. Her fingertips gently brushed against her hair. Third year since joining the company. She shouldn't be a newcomer in the sales department anymore, yet every day felt like being on a test stand. "Rinzaki." The moment she heard the voice, Ayano's body went rigid. Makoto Kurosawa. Department head. Forty years old. A perfectionist who showed no mercy to his subordinates. He was called a "demon" throughout the company. Ayano didn't disagree with that nickname. "Bring me the report." Ayano quickly stood and ran to the department head with the printed report. Kurosawa's office was a corner room. Glass-walled, but the blinds were always half-drawn. Through the gap, his sharp gaze seemed to monitor the outside—or so it felt like an illusion. "Here it is." Kurosawa put on his glasses and glanced at the report. That moment felt eternal to Ayano. His expression was always cold. She had never seen him smile. Well, she thought she had, but that might have been a false memory. "Did you confirm the contract amount?" "Yes, I did." Silence. A long silence stretched out. "The digit is wrong. It's 120 million, not 12 million. How careless can you be?" Ayano's face turned bright red in an instant. She thought she had confirmed it. Yet. "I sincerely apologize." "An apology won't cut it. Nacht Medical is your account. If you can't even verify numbers at this level, you lack professional awareness. You're unfit as a salesperson." His voice was low, but his words reached every member of the department. The twelfth floor fell completely silent. No one dared look at Ayano. If they did, they might become the next target—that fear gripped everyone. Ayano had no words to return. She looked down, staring at the old scar on the back of her hand. An accident from childhood. That scar suddenly caught her eye. "Fix that material and get it to me by three o'clock. That's all." "Understood." She left the office. Her colleague Tanaka looked at her with concern, but Ayano avoided his gaze. She didn't need anyone's sympathy. In fact, that made it harder. She got home after 11 p.m. Her apartment in Ebisu: "Grand Via Ebisu, Room 303." One room, twenty-five square meters. Rent was 89,000 yen a month. Her take-home salary was about 220,000 yen. From that, she sent 50,000 yen monthly to her mother. She collapsed onto her bed. Tears quietly streamed down her cheeks. (Why? I'm trying so hard. Why won't he acknowledge me?) Her smartphone suddenly vibrated. A message from an unknown number. Ayano stared at the screen. "You worked hard today too. You're doing well enough. Please don't blame yourself." Ayano held her breath. Who? Her finger hovered over the reply button but stopped. Should she respond? Or ignore it? Was this kindness real? Or was it someone's prank? But. The fact that these words saved her was certain. She gently held the phone to her chest. It was warm. The warmth through the smartphone's display. That alone made Ayano's heart feel a little lighter. She read the message over and over. She thought about who sent it. A colleague? A client? But no one should know her personal number. She couldn't think of anyone who would send her a message like this. She read the message once more. "You're doing well enough." Those words overlapped with Kurosawa's words from earlier. "You lack professional awareness. You're unfit as a salesperson." The gap. The contrast. In the darkness of late night, illuminated by her smartphone's light, Ayano quietly shed tears. The next morning, before heading to work, she looked at the message again. (I'll do my best today too.) On the train to Solarium Tower, Ayano whispered softly. None of the other passengers paid attention. The harshness of Kurosawa during the day. The kindness of the anonymous message at night. This strange double life was beginning to create a new rhythm in Ayano's daily existence. She didn't yet realize that these two worlds were actually one. And when she discovered that truth, her life would be shaken profoundly. The story had begun to move. Quietly, but certainly. Makoto Kurosawa's private office. Eleven at night. In front of his laptop, he stared at the message he'd sent to Ayano. Sent. Read. His expression was different from what he ever showed his subordinates. Something complex reflected in the depths of his eyes. Strict at work. Kind at night. Between these two, Ayano wavered. And Kurosawa continued to watch over that wavering.