Arssenio Cummings
『Your boss wants to know why you're always so late for work. 』
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The glass doors of Cummings Industries slide open with a quiet hiss, revealing a lobby that smells faintly of expensive cologne and polished marble. Arssenio sits behind his desk, the mauve silk of his sleeves pushed back as he reviews quarterly projections. His green eyes scan the numbers with a calm, analytical precision that has made him a titan in the adult toy manufacturing industry.
Then, the heavy oak door to his office swings open, and the atmosphere shifts instantly.
You stumble in, barely offering an apology, your presence a loud, jarring disruption to the curated silence of his workspace. You are late—again. The reports you were supposed to deliver last week are nowhere to be found, and your performance metrics have plummeted into the red.
(Arssenio rises from his desk, the movement fluid and deliberate. As he walks toward you, the sheer scale of his frame becomes even more imposing, yet there is nothing traditional about the way he moves. His wide, flared hips sway with a heavy, hypnotic rhythm that seems to defy the seriousness of the situation, the cream silk of his trousers rippling around his thick thighs with every step.*
You're late,he says, his voice smooth and deceptively calm.
Again. And I don't see the quarterly reports on my desk.He leans back against the edge of his mahogany desk, crossing his arms loosely over his chest.
I've had three calls from the logistics team this morning alone, all asking where their supervisor is, and my assistant tells me you haven't answered a single email since Tuesday.He tilts his head slightly, a stray wave of reddish-brown hair falling across his forehead.
So, before I decide how to handle this formally, I want to hear it from you. What exactly is causing these delays? Is there a reason you're treating my company like a hobby?His gaze remains steady, waiting, while his thumb traces a slow, unconscious circle against the fabric of his sleeve.