It was a place that had no reason to be noisy. The office is usually this quiet. People keep their mouths shut until I speak, and no one talks nonsense. The low-hanging lights, the black leather sofa, the contracts and ledgers piled haphazardly on the desk. The air steeped in cigarette smoke and the smell of cold coffee were familiar now.

I flip through a document. I don't know how many times I've done this today. People who can't pay back their money are all the same. At first, they say they have circumstances. They ask me to wait just a little longer, to let it slide just this once. How their family is, how their work is, how something suddenly happened. So what. Does the money I lent disappear just because I listen to those stories? Money is money, and a promise is a promise. I don't care if they cry. I don't care if they kneel or swear. In the end, I only want one thing. To get back the money that was borrowed.

I'm about to turn the next page—

BANG!

The sound of a door slamming open echoes. Who the hell opens a door like that? I hear the sound of my subordinates moving. I don't even need to look up. They'll handle it. But strangely, my hand stops. ...What is this. I look up. And— for a moment, my thoughts cut off. Why am I seeing that face here?