8:05 A.M. – Break Room, Oblivion Holdings Inc.
The hum of the coffee machine blended with the low murmurs of early staff shuffling in for another long day of corporate survival.
Clark Evernight rubbed his eyes, still groggy from the night before. He hadn't slept properly since the weird nap incident in the office — and worse, he'd woken up clutching a very expensive-looking polo shirt that was definitely not his.
The scent still clung to it: something sharp, warm, and subtly luxurious. The kind of cologne worn by someone powerful. Someone intimidating.
Someone like—
> No. That's ridiculous, Clark thought, shaking his head. He wouldn't… would he?
He spotted a familiar figure standing calmly by the far wall of the break room.
Hakuro.
The silver-haired CEO from Japan. Refined, calm, mysterious — and for some reason, always smiling like he knew what everyone was thinking.
Clark hesitated, then approached, the folded shirt in hand.
"Uh, excuse me—Hakuro, right?"
Hakuro turned to him with that same unreadable half-smile. "Clark Evernight," he said in his smooth, even tone. "Up early."
Clark gave a sheepish laugh. "Sort of. I… had a weird question."
He held up the shirt.
"This… wouldn't happen to be yours, would it?"
Hakuro blinked at the garment. Recognition flickered in his eyes almost immediately. He leaned forward slightly, eyeing it with a curious tilt of his head.
Then he let out a soft chuckle. "Ah. That?"
Clark waited, hopeful.
Hakuro shook his head. "No. That's not mine."
Clark frowned. "Oh. I just thought—"
"That belongs to the demon," Hakuro said lightly, sipping his tea.
Clark blinked. "The… demon?"
Hakuro raised his brows, amused. "You know who I mean."
Clark opened his mouth, closed it again.
"…You mean Diablo?"
Hakuro smiled, eyes glinting. "Do you know any other cold-blooded, red-eyed perfectionists who give death stares over incomplete spreadsheets?"
Clark's mouth hung open for a second. "Wait, wait—how do you know this is his?"
Hakuro shrugged. "The brand. The scent. The fact that you woke up with it after passing out in a building that practically bends around his schedule."
Clark looked down at the shirt again. "So… he—"
"Covered you," Hakuro finished. "Without a word. Quietly. Thoughtfully."
Clark's face warmed with confusion. "He… that doesn't sound like him."
Hakuro let out a light laugh. "Exactly."
Clark looked up. "Why are you smiling like that?"
Hakuro didn't answer immediately. He set his tea down and leaned in slightly, voice dropping into something gentler — almost cautious.
"Clark," he said. "You should be careful."
Clark raised a brow. "About what?"
"You're standing closer to danger than you realize."
Clark frowned. "You're talking about Diablo again?"
Hakuro nodded slowly. "Don't let that silence of his fool you. There are things in this company you don't see. Things you're not meant to."
Clark scoffed, trying to laugh it off. "You say that like he's not human."
Hakuro didn't laugh with him.
He just looked at Clark — calm, serious, and a little sad.
"…Just remember I warned you."
Before Clark could ask more, Hakuro turned, lifting his tea again and walking away with the same unhurried elegance he always carried.
Clark watched him go, unease creeping into his chest.
> That was weird.
But he shook it off.
---
8:20 A.M. – Outside Diablo's Office
Clark stood in front of the dark wooden double doors, the polo folded neatly in his hands. Hakuro's words still echoed in his mind.
> "That belongs to the demon."
> "You should be careful."
Clark took a deep breath.
"Alright, boss," he mumbled. "Here's your weirdly gentle gesture back."
He knocked twice.
No answer.
He frowned. Checked the time.
Diablo was almost never late.
Another knock.
Still nothing.
Clark slowly turned the handle.
Unlocked.
The door creaked open, and Clark stepped inside.
---
8:21 A.M. – Diablo's Office
It was dark. The blinds were half-drawn, casting angled shadows across the glossy black desk and leather chairs.
No lights. No Diablo.
Clark looked around, uncertain.
"…Weird."
The air was still, but not stale. There was a lingering scent — that same crisp, spicy cologne from the shirt.
Clark walked slowly to the desk, his footsteps echoing slightly.
No signs of life. No half-drunk coffee. No scattered papers. Just a quiet, strangely sterile space.
Something about the silence made his skin prickle.
Still, he stepped forward and gently placed the polo shirt on the corner of the desk.
"Thanks, I guess," he muttered under his breath.
He turned to leave.
But paused.
Something inside him twisted. Unease. He looked back at the desk one more time.
"…Why do you act like you don't care," he whispered, "but still do things like that?"
No answer.
Just silence.
Clark stepped out quietly and closed the door behind him.
---
8:30 A.M. – Hallway
Back at his desk, Clark still felt the weight of Hakuro's words.
Danger.
Demon.
Not human.
He rubbed the back of his neck.
It felt fine.
No marks.
No pain.
And yet… he couldn't shake the weird feeling that he missed something.
Or that something missed him.