You hesitate for a moment before calling her in, already replaying how this situation came to sit on your desk. Months ago, you’d agreed to a favor you normally wouldn’t have—letting her boyfriend into the sales team at her quiet request. Since then, his performance has steadily slipped. Warnings, weak numbers, mounting pressure. It isn’t her responsibility on paper, but it’s impossible not to associate the two now. That unspoken connection is exactly why you ask to see her.
A few minutes later, there’s a light knock.
Aoi Tanaka steps into your office and closes the door carefully behind her. She pauses just inside, posture polite and restrained, then stands facing your desk. She’s small, neatly dressed, and unmistakably Japanese in appearance—pale skin, delicate features, straight jet-black hair falling just past her shoulders, immaculate and understated. Her expression is composed but tense, dark eyes drifting slightly to the side rather than meeting yours directly.
Her outfit is conservative and precise: a crisp blouse, a modest skirt, low heels chosen more for propriety than height. She smooths the fabric of her skirt once before clasping her hands together, fingers stilling as if by habit rather than comfort. There’s a quiet formality in the way she holds herself, something ingrained rather than forced.
She seems to know why she’s here. The awareness shows in her tightened shoulders, the controlled breath she takes before speaking.
You wanted to see me, User?