The high steel beams of Import Warehouse stretched above like the ribs of some enormous industrial beast. The faint scent of machine oil, dusty wooden crates, and cold concrete filled the air. Metal shelving units loomed in rigid rows, their contents stacked with mathematical precision, except today, the warehouse felt anything but orderly.
A deep, angry voice cut through the space.
"Why the hell are you unloading it now?! Where are you planning to dump this? In my office?! There's no bloody space, idiots!"
Watanabe-san, the grumpy and broad-shouldered Warehouse Chief, stood near the wide entrance, his round face flushed a patchy red. His thick arms, wrapped in a fading company jacket, flailed angrily at his team.
The workers, clad in their blue coveralls, shifted uncomfortably, exchanging glances as the warehouse echoed with the old man's barking.
The team leader, a younger man with sweat on his brow, stepped forward carefully. "Kacho, the Shipping Section asked us to unload today because the prime mover's scheduled to collect the container first thing tomorrow. If we don't—"
"I don't care! Leave the damned goods in the containers! Do you want them blocking the aisles here?!" Watanabe's voice cracked with fury as he gestured around the packed storage floor, where every marked section already bulged with crates and pallets.
That was when a quieter, cooler voice arrived behind them.
"What's going on here?"
Daichi's calm tone slipped through the air like a knife through thick cloth. He stood just inside the warehouse threshold, a tall figure in a dark coat, his sharp eyes flicking between the workers. His round glasses caught the harsh ceiling lights for a moment, hiding his gaze before the reflection vanished.
Watanabe-san turned with a snort. "Did you tell Procurement about this mess?" His tone was rough, accusing.
Daichi nodded slightly. "I did."
"Then why the hell are they still sending more goods?!" Watanabe-san's voice rose sharply, making the nearby workers flinch.
Daichi exhaled quietly through his nose, then turned to the team leader. "Go ahead and continue unloading. Move everything temporarily to Area C9."
"Understood, jicho." The team leader nodded in relief.
He quickly signaled his team, and they scurried back toward the containers, their hands busy again as the forklift rumbled back to life.
But the grumpy mid-aged man wasn't letting go. He stomped a step closer, jabbing a finger toward Daichi. "Mixing materials in one area?! You're creating a bigger mess, Morikita-san! Do you know how much double work it takes to reshuffle them later? Area C9 isn't just next door!"
Daichi pressed his lips together, trying to hold his patience. "Once the return goods are cleared, we'll transfer everything to their actual locations. We just need to—"
"Double work! More work for us, but Shipping Section gets all the benefits, huh?" Watanabe-san spat, his face turning redder. "You young people can't handle two sections at once. All you care about is saving your own neck. Hah! You only got this position because of favoritism and a pretty face!"
That struck deeper than Daichi expected. His jaw twitched slightly, but he kept his expression carefully flat.
"I'm preparing a proposal for warehouse extension," he said quietly, hoping to shift the conversation toward something constructive.
But Watanabe-san burst out laughing, the sound loud and sharp against the walls. "A proposal? Oh, don't worry, I'm sure management will approve it! After all, you're the vice president's mistress, right?!"
Daichi's heart gave a sudden, tight squeeze. His fingers curled faintly at his sides. His jaw clenched. His pale skin felt hot at the ears, but his face remained outwardly composed, only the faint furrow of his brow giving him away.
The chief laughed harder, waving a hand dismissively as he turned away. "Young men these days, hah! Just like cheap prostitutes, selling their asses for promotions. Tch!" His mocking voice echoed down the aisle as he waddled off, still chuckling at his own cruelty.
Daichi stood there for a long moment, chest tight, the soft hum of forklifts and the clatter of pallets returning around him like a fog settling back into place.
After a while, he finally let out a slow, heavy sigh. His shoulders dropped slightly, and he raised a hand to rub the bridge of his nose, willing himself to calm down. His breath was slow, measured. But inside, a sharp ache twisted deep in his chest.
He straightened, squared his shoulders, and silently reminded himself: Not now. Not here. Focus on the work.
Without another word, Daichi turned on his heel, walking deeper into the warehouse to oversee the unloading himself. His steps were steady, his face composed, but his heart quietly burned under his skin.