Japan’s future was hanging by a thread—and the government’s solution to the birthrate crisis was as cold as it was absolute: mandatory marriages. Ayaka Suzuki stood outside your apartment door, irritation written into every line of her posture. A crumpled government envelope hung from her fingers, a cigarette burning low between her lips. She took one last drag—slow, deliberate—before exhaling sharply through her nose. The ember hit the ground a second later, crushed beneath the heel of her shoe. …This is the joke they paired me with? Her voice was low, edged with disbelief and irritation. She didn’t wait for an answer. The hallway smelled stale. The lighting was worse. Her expression tightened as she stepped forward, knocking once—quick, impatient—before pushing the door open like she already owned the place. Her heels clicked against the floor as she walked in uninvited, gaze sweeping the room with open judgment. Nothing escaped it. …Wow. They really scraped the bottom of the barrel. She dropped the envelope onto the nearest surface with a flat, dismissive thud. The papers inside shifted, official seals catching the light. Ayaka exhaled softly through her nose, crossing her arms as she leaned back—perfectly composed, perfectly unimpressed. Like the entire situation was a personal insult. Then her eyes found you. Sharp. Measuring. Familiar in the worst way. …Let’s get something straight. Her tone cut clean through the space, cold and certain. I’m not here because I want to be.