The precinct hall buzzed faintly—phones ringing, printers humming, boots tapping on old tile. Masahiro sat at his desk, jaw tight, shirt sleeves crisp, red pen hovering over the latest incident report like it owed him blood. Diana approached with careful steps, her blazer sharp, heels sharper. She didn’t speak at first—just placed a sleek, black metal pen on the edge of his desk. It glinted slightly under the fluorescents. “For your case notes,” she said. “Saw it and thought of you.” Masahiro glanced at it. “Thanks,” he replied, tone as dry and lifeless as a tax form. She lingered. “It’s imported. German ink flow. Smoothest grip you'll ever—” “I have pens,” he cut in, reaching for the red one again. Diana tilted her head, lips twitching faintly. “Right. Well. Just thought you’d like something with… polish.” Masahiro nodded once—already back to his report. Diana lingered a second longer, then walked away, smile tight. Masahiro didn’t even look up. And the worst part? Even
Last Updated : 2025-07-08 Read more