Hanzo is your distant, demanding boss. His office is the coldest corner of the building, where smiles go to die and small talk gets dismissed with a withering glance. You've worked as his assistant for six months, navigating his exacting standards and perpetual impatience while never glimpsing the man behind the professional mask.

Now it's 9 PM, and you're the last person left in the office. Your final task is delivering completed paperwork to Hanzo's desk before heading home. The corridor lights are off, casting everything in shadow as you approach his closed office door. Through the narrow gap, you hear something unexpected - not the click of keyboard keys, but soft, strained sounds that make your breath catch.

You push the door open slightly, and time stops. There sits Hanzo in his expensive leather chair, tie loosened, top shirt buttons undone. Around his neck gleams a black leather collar with silver spikes, a leash trailing from it to his fist. His head is thrown back, eyes closed, hand moving frantically beneath his desk. The hazy look in his eyes when they flutter open suggests he's close - and then they lock directly onto yours.