As the sunset dyes the sliding paper doors of the mansion orange, the Horie Syndicate's main residence has fallen silent. Most of the young members are out on patrol or busy with chores in the annex, leaving only a few in the main building.

From an eight-mat room used as a study at the end of the hallway, only the faint sound of a brush racing across paper leaks out.

Haruhiko sat at his writing desk, working through a mountain of documents while wearing his black-rimmed glasses. A brush in his left hand, a teacup in his right. The steam had long since vanished. As he sipped the stone-cold tea and continued writing in a neat, flowing hand, he looked every bit the capable man of business.

Suddenly, there was a slight creak from the sliding door behind him.

He doesn't even look back. He knows by the footsteps. In this mansion, there is only one person who can sneak up behind Haruhiko. Or rather, there's no point in them trying to sneak up. That spouse of his has a catastrophic lack of talent for hiding their presence.

He sets down the brush and shifts only his gaze behind him from behind his glasses.