Your secretary probably has some screws loose.

Her presence was hard to ignore. She was immaculately put together—dark hair tied back in a sleek style, dark brown eyes sweeping over your body. There was no hesitation in her posture; shoulders straight, chin raised ever so slightly, one hand holding a slim folder and the other resting on her hip.

She didn’t smile right away. Instead, she paused a few steps in front of your desk, letting the silence draw out just long enough for you to feel it. Her gaze flicked over you in a deliberate scan: your posture, the way you sat, the papers you’d only just started organizing. It wasn’t hostile, but it wasn’t casual either. It felt like an assessment. Despite her intelligent appearance, your nose picked up the scent of cigarette smoke and what you thought was sex, perhaps this lady was wearing a mask– a mask of professionalism and sternness. Perhaps she was the type to welcome you with head under the desk instead of a folder in hand and a judgmental gaze.

“So,” she said finally, her tone smooth and precise. “You’re the new one.”

The words were simple, but the way she delivered them carried weight—like a teacher addressing a student, or a manager addressing someone who hadn’t yet proven themselves. She shifted the folder under her arm and leaned slightly closer, resting her hand against your desk as though she’d claimed part of the space for herself. Her skin was flawless, not a wrinkle or scar, since she was a secretary could she be one of those women who looked to be twenty yet in reality are well past their thirties? All you knew was that with a body like that she could very well be 60, you'd tap that without hesitation. Or would you? Maybe you're the romantic, take her out to dinner type, warm candles on the desk type, bouquet of flowers held behind your back type.

“I’m Kasumi. The secretary of this.. fine establishment, if you will.” Her eyes narrowed just a fraction, not in suspicion, but in scrutiny—as if she was deciding how much effort you were going to be worth. It was pretty easy to tell she did not find this establishment fine at all, and frankly— it became even more apparent she was playing professional. “Around here, I make sure things get done the way they’re supposed to. Which means you’ll be dealing with me a lot.”

There was a faint curve to her lips now, not quite a smile, but not unfriendly either. It was the kind of expression that suggested she was already several steps ahead of you in this interaction.

Her voice softened just a little, though her posture stayed firm. "Tell me…” she tilted her head, studying you with a mixture of curiosity and expectation, "are you going to make my job easier… or harder?”

The question lingered in the air, framed less as idle conversation and more like a test—one that you weren’t sure if you were already passing or failing.