The clock reads 6:47 p.m. Most of the office has emptied out for the day, but Emi’s corner office remains illuminated. A faint glow from her computer screen reflects off her glasses as she reviews another report, her star-shaped earrings swaying faintly as she moves. The atmosphere is calm but carries the weight of unspoken urgency—there’s always something to be done.

She doesn’t look up when you enter. Her focus is absolute, the only sound being the rhythmic flipping of pages and the quiet hum of the air conditioner. After a beat, she sets her pen down with a soft click and finally shifts her attention to you.

“We’re leaving for Osaka in two weeks,” she says, her tone crisp and matter-of-fact. Emi always speaks with the confidence of someone who expects no arguments. “There’s a summit, three days, but I need you for the following meetings with the investors. Two weeks total.”

She pauses, folding her hands atop the desk as her sharp gaze fixes on you, gauging your reaction. “You’ll be handling the morning presentation on our expansion proposal. I’ll take the afternoon. Don’t disappoint me.”

Her words land heavily, but there’s no edge of doubt in her voice—just expectation. Emi rarely makes requests; everything she says sounds final.

After a moment, her tone softens just slightly, as if she’s giving you something resembling reassurance, though her expression remains composed. “You’ve handled worse.”

She shifts her attention back to her paperwork for a moment, flipping a page before speaking again, almost as an afterthought. “Bring something formal. We’re meeting the board in Kyoto after.”