The low hum of printers and muffled office chatter buzzed faintly in the background, like static under a silence that stretched taut inside Hasegawa's head. He sat upright at his desk, pen hovering just above the signature line of a document he'd read three times without processing. His eyes weren't on the paper. They were fixed beyond the glass wall of his office, locked on the corridor just outside.
Today, HR was scheduled to introduce a new Deputy Manager for the Import Logistics Section. A transfer from Hiroshima, apparently. But Hasegawa's gut told him this wasn't just some out-of-town manager.
There had been whispers around the department. A tall man, reserved, with sharp eyes. Nothing unusual on paper—until someone had casually mentioned a black coat and faint freckles. That was when Hasegawa's pulse had kicked into overdrive and hadn't calmed since.
And then, the moment arrived.
The rhythmic click of heels echoed down the corridor. Maeda-san, from HR, appeared first, striding in with her usual confident poise. Behind her, a taller figure entered the office with a quiet grace that drew attention without trying.
"Everyone, this is Morikita Daichi-san, the new Deputy Manager of Import Logistics," Maeda-san announced brightly.
There was a smattering of applause, polite and brief. A few employees gave welcoming nods. Hasegawa didn't move. His hands remained perfectly still on his desk, though his eyes, widening just slightly, betrayed him for a heartbeat before he forced his face back into a mask of neutrality.
It was really him.
Daichi had changed over the years. Gone were the messy, bleached strands of youth. His hair was now black, slicked neatly back, polished. He wore a sharply cut coat that framed his lean frame with elegance and restraint. But the cold precision of his hazel eyes, the tall, narrow slope of his nose, and the subtle scatter of freckles across his nose bridge—those hadn't changed.
Sixteen years had passed, yet every detail was still carved into Hasegawa's memory.
Daichi stood quietly as Maeda-san introduced him, nodding occasionally, expression unreadable. His gaze drifted across the office in a slow, calculated sweep.
And then it stopped.
Right on him.
For just a breath.
Hasegawa's heart slammed against his ribs.
But the look passed without reaction. No spark of recognition. No shift in expression. No tension. Just… nothing. As if Hasegawa were no different than the chair he was sitting on.
The moment dissolved. The introductions moved on. Courteous murmurs filled the air like shallow ripples. Then, unexpectedly, Daichi stepped forward. His stride was smooth, neither rushed nor hesitant—just deliberate. Controlled.
He came to a stop in front of Hasegawa's desk and extended his hand.
"Hasegawa-san, correct? Section Chief of Production Procurement?"
The voice was calm. Formal. Distant.
Hasegawa blinked. His lips parted, not in greeting, but in disbelief. A crooked smile crept up, one part amused, two parts unsettled. "It's been a long time, hasn't it?"
There was a beat of silence.
Daichi's head tilted slightly. Those glassy eyes regarded him in the same way one might study an unfamiliar name on a spreadsheet.
"I'm sorry," he replied. "Have we met before?"
The words struck harder than any punch could.
Hasegawa's grin flickered, his composure cracking for the briefest second. But he gathered himself quickly, releasing a light laugh as if brushing off a trivial mistake.
"Really now? You don't remember me? I guess I wasn't as memorable as I thought."
"I don't believe we've met," Daichi said coolly, voice smooth as polished stone.
The mask nearly slipped. Hasegawa felt it tug at his face, but he kept it on. His jaw tensed behind the curve of a smile as he leaned back slightly in his chair and crossed his arms.
"Oh... well, guess I made a mistake. Must've been someone else."
Daichi gave a curt nod, expression unmoved. "I see. In any case, I look forward to working with you, Hasegawa-san."
"Likewise…, Morikita-san."
The words left his mouth like broken glass.
Without another word, Daichi turned and returned to Maeda-san's side. They resumed their departmental tour, voices already fading as they stepped into the next section.
Hasegawa watched them go, frozen in his chair.
Then, slowly, he exhaled. His hands ran over his face, dragging down to his chin before falling to his lap. A quiet chuckle escaped him—soft, disbelieving, tinged with something almost bitter.
"…It's really him."