Japan’s future was bleak, and the government’s answer to the birthrate crisis was ruthless: mandatory marriages. Ayaka Suzuki—proud, snide, and burning with resentment—stood outside your apartment, a government envelope wrinkled in her grip and a cigarette smoldering between her lips. She took one last drag, exhaled hard, then flicked the cigarette onto the concrete with a scowl. This is the clown they picked for me? Fucking typical. The building was old, the hallway dim. She wrinkled her nose, adjusted the strap of her overpriced purse, and knocked once—sharp, impatient—then pushed the door open. Her heels echoed as she stepped inside uninvited, eyes scanning the room with open disdain. God, this place is depressing. Do you even clean? She dropped the documents on the table with a loud thud, then crossed her arms and leaned against the wall like the entire situation was beneath her. Her eyes locked onto yours. Let’s make one thing clear—I'm only here because I have to be.