Hana got to the office early. Like—obscenely early. Unholy, no-human-should-be-awake-this-early early.
She'd even done the whole "put together adult woman" thing—hair actually styled, shirt crisp, pants so sharply pressed they could cut glass. New block heels, too. Not the Manolos. Those stayed home today because wearing a gift from her boss-slash-boyfriend-slash-life-ruiner felt… too intimate for a Tuesday. Or a Wednesday. Whatever day it was.
Her nails were done. Her bag was organized. She ate breakfast.
Breakfast.
Who even was she?
She sat down and started working like she had something to prove. Which, okay, fine. Maybe she did. To who? No idea. Maybe the universe. Maybe Katsuki. Maybe to the little voice in her head that sometimes whispered you're disposable in the middle of the night.
She finished three hours' worth of work in half that time, hyper-focused and slightly manic. Proofreading contracts, cross-checking statutes, coordinating schedules like a caffeinated legal fairy godmother. She even color-coded the merger files—again—because apparently anxiety made her a better admin than actual motivation ever had.
"Wow, Hana," she muttered under her breath as she scanned a final email and hit send. "So efficient. So capable. So tragically underpaid. You're amazing. You're the best. You're the whole damn firm."
(If she said it with enough sarcasm, maybe her brain would believe it.)
Then—
Footsteps.
Expensive ones. The kind that said I'm richer than your dreams and meaner than your inner critic.
Katsuki. Perfectly on time. Tie straight. Arrogance radiating off him in waves. He didn't even look at her—just swept past like a controlled hurricane in pinstripes. As usual.
Right behind him: Kai. Less hurricane, more smirking disaster in a tailored coat. He gave her a two-finger salute without slowing down. No wink. No comment. Suspicious.
Hana narrowed her eyes. Something was brewing.
Five minutes later, Naomi appeared like a summoned spirit—calm, capable, and with the energy of a woman who had survived three mergers and a near-death experience called "training Kai." She stopped by Hana's desk and said, flatly:
"We need you inside."
Oh?
Her heart did something traitorous. Something fluttery and hopeful and utterly stupid.
This is it. The Big Inclusion. Finally. After weeks of cryptic whispers and people quitting like it was a damn group exodus—finally, they were looping her in.
She stood, smoothed her shirt, and grabbed her tablet with the poise of a woman ready to fix someone else's disaster.
She grinned, just a little. "Oh, finally. They're including me in the Tokyo account."
She said it casually. Lightly. Like it didn't matter. Like she wasn't practically vibrating with a wild mix of ambition and dread and desperately repressed hope.
Because if she was finally getting pulled into the room—
Maybe she wasn't replaceable after all.
-----
She should've known.
The second Naomi said, "We need you inside," and didn't offer one of her usual dry, motherly side-eyes or a sarcastic follow-up like "don't set anything on fire," Hana should've known.
But no. Like an idiot—like a hope-addled, mildly delusional idiot in fresh block heels—she'd let herself believe this was it. That they were calling her in because she mattered. Because she was part of the plan.
Her block heels clicked too confidently down the hallway. Her shirt was too neatly tucked. Her heart was too stupidly optimistic.
And then Katsuki opened his mouth.
She braced—half-expecting a demand, maybe a dig, or a cryptic strategic order that sounded like a threat but was secretly praise. But no. His voice was calm. Professional. Measured in that sharp, detached way of his that usually meant courtroom mode.
"You've exceeded every expectation we've set since you joined."
Okay. Weird opener, but sure.
"You've taken on responsibilities beyond your role, adapted under pressure, and performed with remarkable consistency."
Hana blinked.
Was… was he giving her a performance review?
"Your work ethic, your attention to detail, and your ability to handle volatile situations under tight deadlines has never gone unnoticed."
Her brain short-circuited for a second, trying to calculate what level of compliment this was. He wasn't smiling. But he also wasn't scowling. He was being… respectful?
Which was worse, somehow.
Then—he paused.
And that was when her stomach dropped.
Because his jaw tightened. His fingers curled just slightly against the edge of the table. And he couldn't look at her.
That was when she knew.
Before Kai even opened his mouth, before the air changed, before the weight of the silence settled like smoke in her throat—she knew.
Still, hearing Kai whisper "Do you want me to take over?" made it real in a way she hadn't prepared for.
Katsuki didn't speak. He just nodded once.
A quick, almost imperceptible motion.
Coward, she thought distantly. Or maybe not. Maybe this hurt him, too. Maybe that was why he couldn't look at her. Or maybe he just couldn't stand the sight of the mess he was about to make.
Then Kai turned to her.
And smiled. Not in that smooth, condescending way he used on judges or women he wanted to charm. It was too soft. Too kind.
That's what did it.
"Hana," he said gently. "This isn't about your performance."
Her body went still. Every molecule. Every neuron. Still.
"But with the merger, and the new firm structure, we had to make decisions based on licensing and legal qualifications."
There it was.
That word.
Let go.
He didn't even say it cruelly. No one screamed. No one threw a chair. There was no scandal. Just Kai's voice, low and reasonable:
"You can take the bar again. The firm will support you—financially, logistically, whatever you need. Or… if you prefer to wait, Naomi plans to retire next year. There's a place for you then."
But she didn't hear any of that.
Because her brain had stopped working.
The words hit her like a glitch in a video game. Let go.
Let. Go.
A phrase that unspooled every wire in her chest and played static over the last ten years of her life.
Her mouth didn't move. Her face didn't twitch. From the outside, she was calm. Composed. Unbothered. Exactly the kind of terrifying professional that would later be described as taking it well.
But inside?
Inside her brain was sprinting across a landmine of memories at warp speed.
Fifth grade: the teacher who said she was lazy when she forgot her homework again.
Middle school: girls whispering "she's weird" while she sat alone eating onigiri and reading case law for fun.
Seventeen: the class president telling her she talked too much in group projects.
Twenty-four: her ex-boyfriend walking out of their apartment and saying, "You're exhausting."
Twenty-six: being ghosted by a man who said she was "too intense."
A string of dates that ended mid-meal, men who smiled and lied, or worse—men who said you're amazing and never called again.
Her last job, where they said "we just don't need your position anymore" with fake regret and a box for her things.
All of it looped, again and again, inside her skull like a cursed mixtape.
You're too much.
You're not enough.
You don't belong here.
The static got louder.
She was still standing. That was the scary part. Still upright. Still nodding. Still functioning.
But inside?
She was unraveling.
------
Katsuki could see it—like watching glass spiderweb under pressure, no sound, no cracks, just a quiet, unstoppable shatter unfolding in real time.
On the surface, Hana looked calm. Impressive, really. Not even a flicker of visible emotion. Her expression didn't twitch. Her hands didn't shake. She didn't cry. She just stood there, composed and still, like someone receiving a weather update, not a career upheaval.
Then she said, very softly:
"I see."
No inflection. No fight. Just that.
And then she walked out.
Not stormed. Not ran. Just… walked. Quietly. Controlled.
It was worse than yelling. Worse than tears.
The silence that followed was immediate and suffocating.
Kai didn't speak. Naomi exhaled, long and sharp. "This is stupid," she snapped. "I could retire right now and give her my position. That girl just broke inside."
Katsuki didn't answer.
Because she was right.
And also wrong.
Hana didn't break. Not yet. Hana endured. That was the problem.
He stood abruptly, pushing the chair back with a harsh scrape and ignoring the way Kai looked up like he was going to ask something unnecessary and human.
She had to be at her desk. She always came back to her desk. Even when pissed. Even when crying in the bathroom fifteen minutes prior. She'd return with red-rimmed eyes and a smart-ass comment about her mascara budget, then finish three briefs before lunch.
But when he got there, the chair was empty.
Her laptop was still open. Work phone abandoned. The chipped mug she refused to throw away—half-full of coffee, still warm.
His keycard to the penthouse sat beside it.
His jaw clenched.
Hana didn't leave things behind. Not when she was actually leaving. She hoarded chaos like it was oxygen. Her bag always overflowed. Her pockets carried three pens, a lip tint, and at least one emergency soy sauce packet. She didn't forget. She didn't go. Not without finishing her to-do list and passive-aggressively submitting her hours.
So this—this absence—was wrong.
He turned on his heel and headed straight for reception, ignoring the sting of eyes watching him like they were expecting something. He didn't run. He never ran. But his stride was clipped, sharp, unrelenting.
The receptionist looked up. "Oh—Hasegawa-san—?"
"Have you seen Sukehiro?" he said, voice like a blade.
She blinked. "She… went out. Just a few minutes ago."
Went out. As in left the building. As in unaccounted for.
He pulled out his phone, thumb already on her contact. Pressed call. Waited.
Nothing.
No answer. Straight to voicemail.
His teeth ground together.
Dead. The phone was dead. She never let it die. She babied that thing like it was a living organism, with a charging cable in every bag and a backup battery in her desk drawer.
Which meant she either turned it off or forgot.
His fingers curled around the phone tighter than necessary. He didn't look up. Didn't speak. Just stood there, staring down at the screen.
She was gone.
And that—
That wasn't part of the plan.
-----
Hours passed.
Or maybe days. Or maybe time was a construct and she was currently in a fever dream sponsored by emotional devastation and a pair of very stupid, very painful block heels.
She could've gone to Yuna. Should've, maybe. But that's where he'd look. That's where he'd find her, with his stupid calm voice and his backup plans and his quiet, soul-shattering regret. And she couldn't handle that. Not yet.
She didn't remember getting on the train. Didn't remember leaving the office. Didn't remember pulling out her IC card at the station or walking past the ticket machines like a sleepwalker with a law degree and a broken soul.
The first ticket said Tokyo.
The second one said Akita.
She didn't remember buying either.
She told herself she'd stop in Tokyo. Maybe get a hotel. Maybe find a bar. Maybe cry in a Lawson next to the pre-packed karaage. But then Tokyo came and went. So did Sendai. Somewhere after Morioka, she stopped checking the stops altogether. Her brain felt like cotton. Wet cotton. Full of static and regrets and old rejection letters.
When she finally stepped off at the Akita Station platform, she barely felt her legs. Her blazer was wrinkled. Her shirt stuck to her back. Her feet were two blistered, hollow husks.
She stood there for a moment. Just… blinking.
Then, somehow, she was on a local line to Konoura. She must've boarded it. Someone must've pointed. Or maybe she just followed the signs like muscle memory. The entire ride blurred together—flashes of rice fields, flickers of snow on distant hills, the ghost of a conductor asking if she was alright.
By the time she got off, the sun was gone. Her breath fogged in the cold air. She walked the familiar ten-minute stretch uphill without registering where she was going, just one foot in front of the other, like her body knew something her brain didn't.
But she was here.
Standing in front of her parents' house. Still in her work clothes. Block heels digging into gravel. Shirt untucked. Bag hanging off her shoulder like a dead weight.
The porch light was on. The cicadas had finally shut up for the night, thank god.
She just stood there, frozen, like her brain hadn't caught up with her body. Like maybe if she stayed still long enough, the earth would swallow her whole and give her a restart.
She didn't know why she was here.
Okay. That wasn't true.
She knew exactly why she was here. But she didn't want to admit it. Not even to herself. Not when her entire sense of worth had imploded ten hours ago and was now buried somewhere beneath the shattered remnants of her carefully cultivated competence.
The door opened.
"Hana?"
Her mother's voice was soft. Sleep-wrinkled. Surprised. She wore a house apron and socks with little strawberries on them. Like the world hadn't just ended. Like everything was still spinning.
Hana didn't respond.
Couldn't.
She stared at her like she was a stranger. Or maybe like she was the stranger. A displaced organism. Glitched out of her own life.
Her mother stepped forward. Concern blooming instantly, the way it always did when Hana got too quiet. Her hands came up gently—just a touch. Just fingers on her arms.
And that—
That was it.
That single contact broke her.
No warning. No grace.
Hana crumpled.
Right there on the front step. On the concrete. In heels and expensive slacks and a shirt she had ironed that morning because looking sharp was supposed to mean something. Her knees hit the ground. Her hands covered her face. And she cried.
Not the cute kind.
Not the elegant, film-noir tears of a heartbroken heroine.
Full-body, ugly, shaking sobs. The kind that punched out of her lungs like they'd been trapped for years. The kind that had nothing to do with logic or reason or pride. The kind that said: I failed. Again. I tried so hard, and it still wasn't enough.
Her mom crouched beside her, saying her name over and over, like a prayer or a spell, and Hana couldn't answer. She couldn't speak. She just wept into her mother's shoulder like she was twelve again, like the world had ended, like everything she'd built—every late night, every stupid spreadsheet, every ounce of effort she poured into making herself irreplaceable—had been for nothing.
Because maybe she was replaceable.
Maybe she always had been.
And she was just the last one to find out.