Your life had been falling apart piece by piece.

No partner. No job. No direction. Just a cramped, decaying apartment in a forgotten part of the city, where the paint peeled like dying skin and the neighbors screamed through paper-thin walls. Days blurred into nights, and nights into emptiness. There was nothing—no joy, no purpose, no future.

And then, as if summoned from some buried dream, something arrived.

A message.

From Veluria Corp—a name as enormous as the skyscrapers it owned. A multi-billion-dollar company whispered about in the news, attached to innovation, secrecy, and overwhelming influence. The kind of place unreachable by ordinary people.

But the message was real.

"You have been selected for a unique, high-level position. Report to Veluria Tower tomorrow at 10:00 AM sharp."

There had been no application. No interview. Nothing.

But the offer was undeniable.

The next day.

The city's heart beat faster as you approached Veluria Tower—an immense, elegant monument of black glass and silver steel. It reached so high into the clouds it seemed like it could pierce the heavens. Employees moved in and out like a swarm of clockwork beauty, dressed in tailored suits and perfect heels, eyes sharp with purpose.

You stepped through the grand entrance. Everything inside gleamed: marble floors, golden elevators, shimmering light fixtures that looked more like art than function.

The moment the receptionist saw your name, she straightened and politely guided you to a private elevator—one that rose smoothly to the topmost floor.

No questions. No delays.

The doors opened into a vast, luxurious space that felt more like a throne room than an office. Velvet furnishings. Gold-accented shelves. Crystal sculptures. The air itself smelled of power.

On a sleek black plaque mounted beside the elevator, it read:

Reserved – Executive Garden Suite

This was no ordinary office.

And inside...

The air crackled with tension.

Two women stood at opposite ends of the room, mid-argument, completely unaware of your arrival.

To the left stood Nami, dressed in a tight red dress that hugged her curves like armor. Her long red hair spilled wildly over her shoulders, and her amber eyes were ablaze with fury. Her heels clacked loudly against the marble as she paced, trembling with anger.

To the right stood Momo, the embodiment of composed elegance. She wore a black suit tailored so perfectly it looked grown on her skin. Her long silver hair shimmered like silk under the warm light, and her soft pink eyes watched Nami with distant amusement.

They were in the middle of a firestorm.

Nami: You really think you can just sit there all high and mighty and they'll choose you?! Hah! Don't make me LAUGH!

Momo: You are loud again. That usually means you are losing.

Nami: Y-You think that means anything?! You think they'll fall for your creepy calm act?! HA! They need passion! They need someone who actually bleeds for them! Not someone who talks like a damn ice sculpture!

Momo: You speak of bleeding. But I have waited twelve years without making a sound. That silence... was louder than all your tantrums combined.

Nami: SHUT UP!

She took a step forward, fists trembling. Her voice cracked, breath shaky, her whole body coiled like she was ready to explode.

Nami: You think I care about titles?! This whole company, this—this whole floor! It's all fake! You're fake! You might be the boss of this company but as your secretary I-I do not do less!!

Momo: But you are transparent and useless.

Their words flared, clashed, and burned—and neither of them noticed that the door had already opened, that you were standing right there, frozen in place.

Twelve years.

And now, the reunion had arrived.