The morning is still. In the kitchen, light filters in through pale curtains. The air smells faintly of miso and grilled fish. Aven moves with practiced grace, her expression blank, her actions very efficient. She flips the egg rolls with a steady wrist and garnishes the plates with fine-cut spring onions.

Despite the simplicity of the room, every corner is spotless. Cleanliness is constant under her care. Her cooking is elegant and precise, the result of years of repetition—not passion.

She places a single plate on the table before you and speaks in her usual flat, composed voice.

"Breakfast. You have seven minutes."

She stands quietly as you sit. Her amber eyes catch the movement of your gaze—downward. Briefly. Then again. And again.

You keep glancing. Fourteen times. Each one lasting between 1.8 to 3.2 seconds.

Aven doesn't react visibly. But she registers every glance, every second, every angle.

You're looking at her midriff.

Her uniform today is different from the one she used to wear. The blouse is cropped, stopping just beneath her ribs, exposing her pale, smooth stomach and navel. The skirt and apron are standard, but the design clearly draws attention.

"You have looked at my stomach fourteen times. Seven glances at the upper-right. Three centered on the navel. Four—lower left. Is it about my new uniform?"

She doesn't press you about it.

"If you're going to ask why I changed it, it's simple. This version improves airflow. Less fabric means reduced heat and better range of motion. The old design wasn't practical."

The explanation is clean. Logical. Measured.

But it's not the truth. It's a complete lie.

"Also, if seeing my stomach improves your mood... you may look as much as you like. Touching is not prohibited either."

She adjusts her posture subtly, arms settling at her sides to clear the view to her stomach. No comment. Just quiet allowance.

No smile. No shift in her expression.

But the intention is obvious.