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There was a time in your life when you were truly alive. When waking up was exciting, and each day passed a little too quickly. A time when going to bed at 8 p.m. felt like a waste. What would happen to all those hours you could’ve spent reading under the covers or doodling your school crush?

While your parents slept deeply and desperately, little you was filled with joy. Because you believed—honestly—that you’d get to live like this forever.

You pushed through the glass door of your office floor with your second cup of coffee that morning. It was cheap, it was nasty, and it came from a suspicious vendor on the corner of the street.

Usually by the time you stepped off the train, you’d regained enough of your soul to face the day head-on—trembling knees from low blood pressure, but upright nonetheless. In this life, you weren’t born an heiress. You had to rawdog it like the rest of the rats.

You never even liked coffee. But damn if it wasn’t the closest thing to crack you’d ever tried. One sip and your brain lit up like in a tunnel vission of KPIs and deadlines. Even when it made your hands shake from too many espresso shots.

Today, you needed it. You were still recovering from a cold you’d tried stuffing back into your body all weekend, dragging yourself off the train like Hades had his grip around your ankles. Not even your Manifesting Punching People playlist could claw his fingers off.

You sat at your desk. Nothing like a bit of caffeine and microplastic to fast-track your death. Preferably today, because another day under your manager—Demon Lord Tsukishima Kei—was draining the last of your life force.

You jabbed at the monitor button like you wanted to kill it. The Apple chime chimed back at you, soft and depressing, as more coworkers filed in one by one. A few gulps in, and you slipped into the usual rhythm. Dull. Mechanical. You were sorting through archival paper files—a job so soulless, it was singlehandedly making you lose all faith in humanity’s preservation of history.

Let people remember what they want. Let chaos win.

At least your manager hadn’t shown up yet. He often had meetings outside with curators—usually at cafés and upscale restaurants. Of course. Fucking asshole. Your hand slowed as your finger trailed the edge of a familiar folder—Yayoi Kusama’s exhibit. You weren’t sure if it should be archived yet, so you opened Slack.

Tsukishima Kei | Online

Liar.

You typed your question anyway.

Your first year working with Tsukishima had taught you one thing: he hated assumptions. He’d chewed you out once just for guessing on a document detail instead of asking him directly. That night right after you dropped your bag on the floor of your bedroom and slumped onto your bed you screamed into your pillow afterward. Literally. Because how was anyone supposed to approach a man who looked, moved, and talked like the Devil?

You’d crushed multiple beer cans cussing him out to your few trusted coworkers—each one harboring their own personal grudge against him.

This morning he was manageable.

Even when his attitude dripped through the screen and you felt like punching the screen. Maybe, more than coffee you needed a boxing class. That way when the day comes, you could land a solid one on him. Crack his perfect glasses into two and throw your resignation letter in his face.

After lunch, you finally escaped to the archival room. You liked the smell. You liked how cool it was. Calm, dim, quiet. Too eager, you carried two boxes of files up the stairs, fueled by rage and spite. You didn’t expect to see him today. Sometimes, he just didn’t show up.

You finished filing before curling up in a dark corner of the room. The one spot you knew the AC hit just right.

And then—bliss.

You let yourself drift. Limbs loose, breath slow. Your head tilted back against the wall, hair shifting gently from the cool air blowing above.

Nothingness.

Until a spreading chill touched your cheek. Slow. Steady. Cold.

You stirred.

A water bottle was being pressed to your face.

You followed the hand holding it—and flinched.

Tsukishima Kei. Towering over you with a subtle sneer. One hand braced on his knee, watching you like some pitiful stray. He pulled the bottle back with a sigh and straightened.

“Is this what you do when I’m gone?”

You scrambled upright, tugging your long skirt into place. “I… I was just really tired…”

“Then use the staff room.” His face was firm. “That’s what it’s for.”

You didn’t respond. Just moved toward the boxes, avoiding his eyes.

“No way,” you muttered. “It’s too crowded in there.”

He scoffed. Then bent over, grabbed the boxes before you could, and started walking ahead. “So what—now you want your own bedroom?” He turned at the door, holding it open.

You inhaled, smoothed your hair, and walked past him.

Why, every time he saw you, did he seem to think: Let me make this girl miserable.

The walk back was silent. You didn’t want to know more about him. If you started understanding him, you might feel sorry for him. Or worse—empathize.

“Still sick?” he asked suddenly.

You blinked. You hadn’t told him. It had been manageable, mostly gone by Sunday.

“Laura told me,” he added.

Ah. Laura. His assistant and emotional translator. Saint Laura, whose mental fortitude had kept her in his orbit for three years. There’d been rumors they were dating—understandable. She was beautiful. Smart. The whole influencer thing on the side. When you’d asked her why she stuck around, she dropped the bomb.

She was married.

To Kei’s older brother.

Your jaw hit the floor.

She’d laughed, explaining that Kei was actually a big softie at home- four assistants had quit before her. But she? She kept him in check.

She claimed it was her husband’s influence. You disagreed. Laura was just built different. You would’ve loved working under someone like her. She was direct, compassionate, grounded.

“But you’ve got him under control, too,” she once told you, tilting her head.

“Huh??” you’d replied, feeling that Laura was talking about another person entirely.

Back in the present, you were remembering that conversation for some reason. You still didn’t get it. If it were true, wouldn’t he let you nap until 4:40 p.m and then clock out early. Without consequence?

“What if I do want a bedroom?” you asked, lifting your chin as you neared the office door.

He paused, hand on the handle. “Are you serious?”

You nodded. Your face determined.

To your absolute horror, Tsukishima chuckled—an actual, audible laugh. “If you want to keep sleeping that badly, just take the couch in my office.” He opened the door and tossed the empty boxes to the side like it was no big deal.

You stared at his back.

“I’m heading out again,” he added, walking toward the pantry. He pointed lazily at the door to his private office. “Knock yourself out.”

In the end… you didn’t literally sleep in his private office. Obviously. What the hell.

Sometimes, he said things that made you want to open your resignation draft and add a few new bullet points.

Like that time everyone had to stay late prepping for the Tibetan exhibition. At 1 a.m., the museum was still full of movement—everyone scrambling to make things perfect for the next day.

You dragged yourself to your desk, desperate to rest your head.

When you woke, groggy and stiff, there was a jacket draped over your shoulders. The office was quiet. Only one light was on.

Your manager stood by the pantry, stirring his tenth cup of coffee.

He looked over when he saw you walk up.

“You can go home.” He pulled out his phone. Opened Uber. Held it out to you. “Charge it to the company.”

You stared.

Did he expect you to let him know your address?

Uh. No??

You shook your head, grabbed your bag, and left quickly before he changed his mind.

You shook the memory away, unclenching your shoulders. Whenever Kei was away, the office resumed their chatters and deadlines and expectations reasonable.

You stopped by a coworker’s desk to do your rounds as a certified Personality Hire™. That role alone was why you hadn’t submitted your resignation yet. The general workload was doable. Grind came only during big events, and when it did, everyone suffered equally.

You popped a piece of chocolate in your mouth, ready to chat—

But your coworker was actually working.

Like, genuinely working. They couldn't even look at you for longer than 5 seconds, with fingers hammering away at a proposal that had been revised to hell and back.

All because of one person.

Kei.

Your coworker finally turned toward you. Smiling through exhaustion “Look, Y/N,” he said, voice teasing, eyes dead. “Not all of us are Kei’s favorite.”

“E-Eh?”

He grinned wider. “Why do you hate him so much anyway? He clearly likes you.”

“What?”

“If I were you, I’d jump that dick and seal the deal.”

“WHAT??”

🤍🤍🤍

A couple of months had passed since that bizarre revelation.

You hadn’t been able to look at your manager the same way ever since. Your texts to him grew more formal and distant. And he seemed to pick up on it. Where there had once been sarcastic banter and playful digs, he was now all business—polite even and almost painfully neutral.

So when you received an offer as an Exhibition Designer—something you’d been studying on the side because the administrative work had been quietly killing you—it was the obvious choice. You wanted your work to be seen, experienced. And this was your way out.

You emailed him requesting a one-on-one. He agreed. Efficient. Clinical.

Every day that passed inched closer to that meeting, and every moment he was there without saying anything clawed deeper into your nerves.

One morning just before The Day, you found yourself trapped in the elevator with him. He entered first, standing toward the back while you stepped in front of him. Unspoken tension filled in at a sickening pace.

Just before the doors could seal shut, a hand shot between them.

They stuttered back open.

A guy from another division stepped in, followed by what felt like his entire office. A small crowd funneled into the elevator in a flurry of chatter and catch-ups.

You blinked rapidly, pressed into the corner, trying not to get stepped on. But there was no room to move. A second later, you felt it—his chest brushing against your back.

You closed your eyes. Jaw clenched. Lips pursed.

“Did you hear about Makoto?” one of them said in barely a whisper. You couldn’t even tell who it was—faces blended into necks and blazers in front of you.

“They finally started dating!”

“Eeeh!” The group erupted in giddy excitement like high schoolers.

“I called it. She made it so obvious—haha! It was adorable, though.”

Someone sighed dreamily. “I want an office romance too…”

Your grip on your bag tightened. White-knuckled.

“I know, right? They're so cute it’s disgusting.”

They exited one floor before yours. As soon as the space cleared, you scrambled away from Tsukishima, practically slamming yourself against the elevator buttons to distance yourself. You held your breath, refusing to even glance in his direction. You swore you could feel his gaze anyway.

The elevator dinged again.

He walked past you first, calm and unbothered.

You exhaled like you'd been underwater. How were you supposed to face him tomorrow? Tomorrow, when you were supposed to have that meeting.

When you passed through the glass office doors, you caught a glimpse of him settling into his desk. The blinds were only half-closed. You gasped—startled—your coworker had slapped your lower back.

“Did you guys fight?” he asked, slinging an arm over your shoulder and dragging you to your desk. “Spill.”

“Who? What? HAHA! What?”

He rolled his eyes, pulling your chair out from under the desk and plopping into it himself. His formal attire made him look like a boring straight man, despite the glittering sass in his eyes. Dark circles shadowed under them as he typed random characters on your keyboard, jerking your monitor awake.

“It’s obvious,” he said, spinning lazily in your chair as you pulled another one over for yourself. “And it’s hurting us.”

“Us? Who is ‘us’?!”

“Oh please, bitch,” he deadpanned. “We all know.”

“You’re insane. There’s nothing—”

“Quin.” The voice came from your manager’s office door. Tsukishima stood there, gaze laser-focused on your coworker. “If you’re not busy, I need you in the meeting now.”

Quin turned to you slowly, his look screaming, I told you so, before standing up and dragging himself to his desk to retrieve his laptop and notes.

Kei held the door open. And then, he turned to you.

“Y/N?”

You jumped to your feet, still wearing your bag.

“O-Okay.”

The meeting felt especially heavy that morning. You sat directly across from Tsukishima at the long center table. Quin was presenting his updated proposal—the one he’d been working on for weeks. The one that was finally approved.

When Quin returned to his seat beside you, you reached out and gave his arm a firm squeeze. He grinned. Kei had watched. His eyes narrowed for a fraction of a second before he looked back at the screen and took over the presentation.

Once the meeting ended, people slowly filtered out. Kei’s voice stopped them briefly.

“I won’t be able to attend tomorrow’s one-on-one,” he said casually. “A curator rescheduled last minute.” He then directed his eyes toward you, signaling that he meant to talk to only you. “So stay here Y/N.”

Your heart sank. So did your stomach. You’d needed today to prepare. Rehearse what to say. How to say it. Quin was the last to leave. He gave you a gentle pat on the back before slipping out and shutting the door behind him.

Kei removed his glasses, pulled a cloth from its case, and began cleaning the lenses slowly, methodically.

“So?” he asked, not even glancing up. “What did you want to talk about?”

Your throat tightened.

“Uh… uh…”

He slid his glasses back on. His eyes found you easily as he readjusted his sight. You were still wearing your bag. He noticed. It irritated him.

“Um… I…”

He raised a brow. “Wanna resign?” he asked dryly, clearly trying to lighten the tension. “Why are you so nervous?”

He walked over and switched off the projector, maybe the idle animation was distracting you. He'd learned that you had a maximum of 1 minute attention span, he had started using that to gauge information design for shorter exhibitions.

It felt like, deep down, he did already know.

You had changed these past few months. You were sharper. Bolder. You pushed back now. Less apologetic. Like you had nothing to lose.

Still, when you looked up at him and softly said “…Yes.”—his chest tightened. The sinking came quick and quiet. Like a floor giving way beneath him.

Disappointment?

Maybe.

You’d been one of the few employees who could keep up with him—fiery enough to challenge him, smart enough to get things done. Were you finally tired of him? Did he say something that was out of line?

“Oh,” he said. Calmly. He returned to his chair, sitting heavily. Watching you stare at the snake plant in the corner instead of meeting his eyes.

“I got an offer,” you said, slowly breaking into a relaxed smile. “From The National Art Center.”

His mouth went dry. “Tokyo?”

You nodded. Watching your eyes filled with sparks left him with a pang. You were leaving, leaving. He had thought that he had time, even after Laura reminded him that life moved fast in unexpected ways.

“Yeah! As a junior Exhibition Designer.” You sat up straighter, more sure of yourself now. “I’d like to formally submit my resignation tomorrow.” You scratched at your elbow, shy and beaming.

“Exhibition… designer?” he repeated blankly.

You nodded again, proud.

“You were into design…?” He spoke slowly, as if he was saying this to himself. In wonder that he had missed that about you.

You cleared your throat. “Yeah. I started learning from Quin. I don’t know, I just… I really fell in love with it.”

“…Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you… what?”

“That you were interested. Quin could’ve used help. We’ve been expanding quickly. You could’ve—” he caught himself. Stopped before the sentence collapsed into something else. He caught himself before his legs gave in and he dropped to his knees begging.

“Quin referred me,” you said with a small laugh.

“I see.” He swallowed. Hard. Everything he wanted to say tucked away beneath that sentence. After a long silence that was starting to wear down at the confidence you had slowly regained through the awkward moment, he finally stood, walked over and extended his hand.

“Congratulations, Y/N.” His lips curled up into a small smile. It wasn’t bitter, it wasn’t angry. But you could’ve sworn his eyes looked unsettled.

You looked down at his hand for a moment before rising on your feet and taking it. Moving to press your other palm over his—firm, sincere, warm. He had been a Devil manager but he had also given you a chance when you knew nothing. He’d answered your dumb questions with patience—at least at first. Then with sarcasm. Then, with irritation. But he answered.

He answered them all.

You let go. And, before you could overthink it, stepped forward and wrapped him in a casual hug.

His throat locked up.

“You still have a month here,” he murmured, almost losing his voice.

“Thank you, Kei.” You smiled, warm and real.

You stepped back, stretched your arms above your head, laughing lightly. “Aah… that felt good!” Gathering your notebooks and pens, you turned to him with one last smile. Then you walked out of his office.

And for the second time in his life,

Tsukishima Kei felt his heart crumble.

🤍🤍🤍

Quin settled in beside you at your desk during lunch, the rustling of onigiri wrappers and a yogurt bottle crackling across your scattered files. “I didn’t know you had it in you,” he said, biting into one triangle.

“What now.” You shot him a glare.

“That was brutal, Y/N.”

“I’m telling you—we’re not like that.”

He cackled, “You didn’t see his face when you walked out.”

You pouted. “There’s no way.” Quin had to be screwing with you. The man was a pathological liar and often crafted elaborate fake scenarios for fun. Honestly, you weren’t even sure his name was Quin.

“You should at least give him a chance,” he said. “I nearly teared up just thinking about it.”

“Why are you crying for him?”

He stared at you like you were the densest creature to ever crawl through human evolution. The kind of denial that was so deeply cemented it sealed off any possibility, any what ifs—the type of existence determined to live without drama, or pain.

“He’s been pining over you. It’s like watching a Pride & Prejudice role-play, except nothing is progressing.”

“No he hasn’t.”

“He so has.”

“If he wanted to, he would.”

“If you don’t get off TikTok right now—” He flicked dew from his cold yogurt bottle directly into your head as if it was going to purify any brain-rot.

“Quin—”

He sighed, leaning back dramatically. “He literally has the emotional intelligence of a junior high-school boy.”

“Then I’m not dating a boy!”

He slammed a palm down on your desk in dramatic disbelief. “Why are you fighting me on this?! Fine. I’ll pay for your Shinkansen ticket if you just ask him.”

You blinked. “...Ask him what?”

“If he likes you. Just ask. And I swear, he’ll confess.” He tapped the desk with complete confidence. “One shinkansen ticket,” he declared.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Nozomi?” you asked, slowly.

“All yours.”

The truth was: it was impossible to find the right moment. He was always just out of reach. Always with someone else. Always in motion. You nearly gave up. Shinkansen tickets weren’t that expensive. But to have it free was definitely tempting.

There were only two weeks left until your last day—and with the academic summer break just around the corner, the museum had launched a dozen mini exhibitions at once. Everyone was going full throttle, but not quite to the point of working overnight.

Still, it meant you had to be in at 6 a.m. every day for the past week.

You hated the morning train crowd. So you’d started leaving even earlier, skipping the madness altogether. When you arrived, the museum was still half-asleep. Some technicians waved groggily from their corners.

The office floor beyond the glass door was still cloaked in darkness. You didn’t bother flipping on the lights—you had too much to hold in your hands, and the sun was already pouring in through the curtains, soft blue and pale.

You dropped everything with a tired exhale. Sweat trickled down your neck. Dragging the curtain string, you filled the room with light.

Summer was bleeding in, white and cloudless, even this early.

And then, the thought came.

Watching the distant street below fill slowly with workers and students, the world steadily waking up—

Was it really true?

What Quin had said?

Kei? and... You?

You stared through the window. And without warning, without meaning to, the words tumbled out of your mouth.

“Do you like me, Kei?”

The room echoed it back to you.

You heard a sharp thud behind you.

You turned.

And he was there.

Your manager—Tsukishima Kei.

Frozen halfway into the room, halfway to his office.

His phone lay on the floor, still buzzing with notifications, completely forgotten.

A surge of nerves shot from your feet up to the tips of your hair. Your shoulders hunched as if trying to vanish into yourself. Your mouth opened to speak, to apologize, to lie maybe—but before you could, he beat you to it.

“I do.”

So Quin was right. So absurdly. So heart-pounding.

Kei bent down to pick up his phone, his movements stiff, disoriented. He looked like a man who had just taken a bullet and wasn’t sure where it hit. He stood upright, not knowing if he should keep walking toward his office. Or toward you.

For fuck’s sake. He was twenty-nine. This shouldn’t be so difficult.

“…Do you want to grab breakfast,” he finally managed, the mix of fear and nerves making him almost explode in his head he could barely hear himself. “with me?”

His voice had come out quieter than the usual Kei who lead meetings with the firm confidence of a black panther and the sharpness of a hawk. He took a step toward you. His grip on his phone tightened—to hide the trembling.

Somewhere inside your electrified brain, your head nodded. Your legs moved too. You walked toward him, careful, cautious. As if any sudden motion would make the entire office collapse in on the both of you.

Burying you beneath the rubble.

Dragging you down together—maybe into hell.

And maybe, you were okay with that.