Chapter 1: First Day Instructions
The air in the office was freezing. Megumi fought the urge to hug herself, the sheer fabric of the lace bodysuit doing nothing against the aggressive chill of the air conditioning. It whispered against her skin, a constant, embarrassing reminder. The micro-mini skirt felt more like a wide belt, and every time she shifted in the sleek ergonomic chair, she was terrified the hem would ride up further.
She focused on the desk. It was a vast, cold expanse of glass and steel, impossibly clean. The keyboard clacked with a hollow, final sound each time she tentatively pressed a key. Beside it sat a small vase with a single white orchid. It was elegant and utterly alien, like a museum piece placed there by accident.
“Your primary duty is to ensure Mr. Sukuna’s schedule flows without interruption.”
The voice was smooth and toneless, appearing right beside her ear. Megumi jumped, a small gasp escaping her before she could stifle it. Uraume stood there, having glided over without a sound. Their pale face was a mask of placid efficiency, their long white hair falling like a curtain of ice. They didn’t look at Megumi’s face; their gaze was fixed on the computer screen, as if assessing her posture through the reflection.
“Y-yes, of course,” Megumi stammered, her fingers freezing above the keys.
Uraume’s slender hand reached past her, the scent of something clean and antiseptic wafting from their sleeve. A pale finger traced a line on the monitor. “The ten-thirty call with the Kyoto partners is non-negotiable. It will last precisely eighteen minutes. You will disconnect the line at nineteen.”
“Disconnect? But what if they’re still—”
“You will disconnect at nineteen minutes,” Uraume repeated, the words leaving no room for debate. Their eyes finally slid to her, a slow, deliberate movement. They took in her attire, the translucence of the top, the precarious shortness of the skirt. No reaction flickered in their expression. It was as if they were examining a piece of office equipment. “The dress code is a reflection of Mr. Sukuna’s standards. You will adapt.”
Heat flooded Megumi’s cheeks. Adapt. The word echoed in her head. This was a real company, a prestigious internship. This had to be normal, a test of her professionalism. Her boss, Mr. Sukuna, had handed her the garment bag himself this morning with a flat, “Wear this. It’s the uniform.” His presence had been so overwhelming, his authority so absolute, that questioning it felt like spitting in the face of the opportunity she’d worked so hard for.
“I understand,” she whispered, her voice thin.
Uraume gave a single, slow nod. “You will not enter the inner office unless summoned. The door remains closed.” They gestured to the massive, dark wood door to her left. It was shut tight, a monolithic barrier. “Your focus is the filter. Nothing unimportant reaches him. You are the filter.”
Megumi nodded vigorously, wanting to prove she could be a good filter. “Emails first, then calls, then any physical documents. I’ve organized the inbox by priority.”
A pause. Uraume’s head tilted a fraction. “Priority is defined by Mr. Sukuna’s interest, not by the sender’s title. You will learn the difference.” Their gaze lingered on her for a moment longer, a silent assessment that made Megumi’s skin prickle more than the cold air. “Your discomfort is visible. Breathe. It is just a job.”
But it didn’t feel like just a job. It felt like a performance where she didn’t know the lines, in a costume that made her feel utterly exposed. The lace itched. The silence between Uraume’s directives was heavy, filled only with the hum of the lights and the distant, muffled sound of the city far below.
“Any questions?” Uraume asked, the prompt clearly a formality.
Megumi’s eyes darted to the closed door again. A knot, tight and complex, was forming in her stomach. Part was pure dread. Another part, a traitorous, shameful part, was a low hum of something else—a raw, nervous awareness of her own body in this ridiculous outfit, under the gaze of someone who owned the room without even being in it. It was confusing and sickening.
“No,” she said, forcing her voice steady. “No questions.”
“Good.” Uraume turned to leave, their movements eerily fluid. “He will ring when he requires you.”
They disappeared into a side door near the reception area, leaving Megumi alone in the sterile glow of her desk. The orchid seemed to watch her. She glanced at her reflection in the dark computer monitor—a pale, wide-eyed girl swallowed by the sleek furniture and drowning in lace. She took the shaky breath Uraume had advised.
The direct line on her phone, a crimson console separate from the rest, suddenly felt like a living thing. She stared at it, her hand hovering.
Then, a buzzer sounded. It wasn’t the phone. It was a raw, electronic drone coming from a small intercom box she hadn’t even noticed. It vibrated through the glass of the desk.
A red light blinked on.
The sound died, leaving a ringing silence that was worse. The summons hadn’t come from the phone. It had come from the door. He knew she was there, knew she was waiting. He had bypassed the system entirely.
Megumi stood. The skirt, impossibly, felt shorter. She smoothed her hands down the front of the bodysuit, a futile gesture. The fabric was sheer. There was nothing to smooth.
She walked toward the dark wood door, each click of her heels on the polished concrete floor echoing like a timer running out. The knot in her stomach pulled tighter, a blend of sheer professional terror and that unwelcome, buzzing awareness. She was the filter. She was the interface.
She raised a hand, knuckles poised before the rich, polished wood.
Before she could knock, the door clicked open. Not a full swing, just an inch. A sliver of profound darkness waited beyond.
A voice came from within, deep and saturated with a casual kind of ownership. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.
“Megumi. In.”