Three months into this hellscape of a job, and Hana had finally mastered the science of Katsuki Hasegawa's Five Stages of Fury.
It was a necessity. A survival skill. Like learning which wild mushrooms wouldn't kill you, or how to escape a bear attack. Except in this case, the bear was her boss, and instead of claws, he wielded brutal efficiency and a deep-seated intolerance for human error.
Stage One: The Calculated Glare.
Subtle. Deceptive. A quick, surgical cut of his eyes, accompanied by an unimpressed exhale. This was the warning shot. The red alert before the true storm hit. If she was particularly unlucky, he'd add an eyebrow twitch—a subtle but deadly upgrade in the Hasegawa Rage System™.
Stage Two: The Weaponized Silence.
Oh, this was the worst. The absolute worst. He wouldn't yell. Wouldn't scowl. Wouldn't even look at you. Just a sharp, eerie stillness—like standing in the middle of a quiet battlefield, knowing a sniper already had you in their sights. Hana hated this one because it made her brain go into a tailspin. Was he actually mad? Was he just busy? Had she finally, irreversibly fucked up? Was this the day she died?
Stage Three: The Single-Word Commands.
A personal favorite, if only for its efficiency. "Fix it." "Now." "No." These were the only acceptable responses in this stage. If you got anything more than one syllable, congratulations, you were now in—
Stage Four: The Full-Name Summon.
There were few things in this world that could bring her to her knees, but hearing Sukehiro barked across the office in that tone? Oh, it was a spiritual experience. This was the stage where people abandoned all hope.
And then, of course—
Stage Five: The Thermonuclear Event.
This one was rare. A myth, whispered in hushed tones by junior associates who had barely survived. It took an extraordinary level of failure to unlock.
And today?
Oh, today she had unlocked it.
It wasn't like Hana had intended to get fired.
In her defense (and it was a really good defense), the mistake wasn't even hers. It was a system failure. A digital mishap. An unfortunate glitch in the goddamn corporate matrix.
But Hasegawa? No, he didn't believe in system failures. He didn't believe in glitches. He believed in results, and today, those results had not been delivered.
Specifically, the results of a very important client conference call that he had missed because—get this—the appointment was not on his calendar.
Which would have been fine. Acceptable. If not for the fact that—
Only Hana had access to his calendar.
There had been no yelling. No dramatic outburst. Just a moment of thick, suffocating silence in his office before he leveled her with the kind of look that reduced lesser beings to dust.
"Get out."
"Excuse me?"
"You're fired," he said, flat, final, as if her entire existence had just been redacted from his mental records.
Oh, hell no.
Hana had made many mistakes in her life, but this? This was not one of them.
So instead of meekly gathering her things and fading into tragic unemployment, she marched straight to IT. Convinced the poor, overworked tech guy to pull up the calendar logs.
And then, she strutted right back into that stupid, glass-walled office and slapped the printed record onto his desk.
"Not my mistake," she said sweetly, smiling like an absolute menace. "Enjoy your day, Hasegawa."
Then she walked out.
Dramatically.
Like a queen.
Kai leaned against the reception desk, half-listening to some paralegal drone on about filing discrepancies while his real focus stayed trained on the glass-walled battlefield that was Katsuki's office.
It was a fascinating thing to watch—this game Hasegawa and Hana were playing.
Not that either of them would call it that.
Katsuki pushed. That was his nature. He tested limits, broke them, then expected everyone around him to rebuild themselves into something stronger. It was why half the legal world hated him and the other half begrudgingly respected him.
Hana, though—she was a different breed entirely. Most people pushed back against Katsuki and cracked. They got defensive, panicked, or wore themselves down trying to match his impossible pace.
But Hana?
She adapted. She didn't try to overpower him—she sidestepped him, like water slipping through clenched fingers. Found new angles. New ways to work around his bullshit while still getting exactly what she wanted.
Kai had watched her long enough to know she wasn't just surviving—she was learning him. How he worked. What set him off. How to anticipate his next demand before he even made it.
Which made the current situation all the more entertaining.
Kai straightened slightly just in time to see Hana stride into the office, her expression calm, controlled—too controlled.
Oh, she's pissed.
He could feel the static in the air before she even spoke.
Then—bam.
The sound of paper hitting Katsuki's desk echoed through the office like a gunshot.
Not a single person in the vicinity dared to look, but Kai caught the way a junior associate flinched from three desks away.
"Not my mistake," Hana said, her voice saccharine-sweet. "Enjoy your day, Hasegawa."
And then—she left.
Kai didn't move immediately. He let the moment breathe. Let the silence settle in as Katsuki stared at the papers in front of him.
Finally, after a long beat, Kai pushed off the desk and strolled into the office, uninvited.
He plucked the papers off Katsuki's desk, scanned them, and let out a bark of laughter the moment he caught the audit trail.
"Oh, this is good," he mused, shaking his head. "Really good."
Katsuki exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple. "Shut up."
Kai ignored him, already smirking. "You deleted it." He tilted the papers toward Katsuki like evidence in a cross-examination. "Client conference call? Gone. Courtesy of Hasegawa, Katsuki."
Katsuki clicked his pen once, jaw tightening. "It was a scheduling conflict."
Kai's grin widened. "Oh, so you meant to fire your assistant over your own mistake?"
Katsuki's glare sharpened, but Kai had known him long enough to see the telltale signs—shoulders locked a little too tight, his grip on the pen just a fraction away from snapping it in half.
This wasn't just about the calendar.
Katsuki didn't make mistakes. Didn't believe in making them.
Which meant the real issue here wasn't just an incorrect firing—it was the fact that Hana had proved him wrong.
And he did not handle that well.
Kai hummed thoughtfully, tossing the papers back onto the desk. "Well. That's awkward."
Katsuki ignored him. He had already moved on—Kai could see the gears turning, the rapid-fire mental calculus as he pulled out his phone and scrolled.
And then—without hesitation—he dialed.
Kai raised an eyebrow. "You do realize you just fired her, right?"
Katsuki didn't even glance up. "She still has work to finish."
Kai huffed a quiet laugh, watching with genuine amusement as Katsuki held the phone to his ear, waiting.
The moment Hana picked up, her voice was sharp, incredulous. "What."
"Proofread the Matsuda contract."
A long pause.
"Excuse me? you just fired me, remember?"
"Then maybe you shouldn't have brought your work phone with you" The delivery was so dry, so utterly Hasegawa, that Kai had to press a fist against his mouth to keep from laughing outright.
"You absolute psychopath—"
"I expect you in thirty minutes."
And then he hung up.
Kai let out a slow whistle, shaking his head. "That was incredible. Truly. A masterclass in not admitting fault."
Katsuki set his phone down, rolling his shoulders slightly. "It wasn't about fault."
Kai smirked. "Oh, really? So what was it about?"
Katsuki exhaled through his nose, gaze flicking toward the discarded papers on his desk. "She's competent."
Kai tilted his head. "Lots of people are competent."
"Not like her." The words were matter-of-fact, clipped, but Kai didn't miss the way Katsuki's fingers tapped against his desk. Once. Twice. A subconscious tic he only did when he was thinking.
Kai studied him for a beat. "You never call people back."
Katsuki glanced at him, unimpressed. "You never shut up."
Kai grinned. "I mean it. Ever. You fire, and that's it. Done. Over." He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. "But her?"
Katsuki didn't answer immediately. He stared at the empty space where Hana had stood not ten minutes ago, expression unreadable.
Finally, he exhaled sharply, reaching for his pen. "I need someone efficient."
Kai did not answer. He let the silence stretch. Let Katsuki sit in it.
By the time she got back to the firm (her grave), Kai was already waiting for her, leaning against the reception desk with his usual, insufferable smirk.
"Ah, there she is," he greeted, looking far too entertained for someone who had witnessed her professional execution an hour ago.
Hana scowled. "Shut up, Sato."
Kai's grin widened. "You know, Sukehiro, you keep breaking records."
She narrowed her eyes. "What record?"
Kai's gaze flicked toward Katsuki's office, then back at her, amused. "He's never called someone back after firing them."
Hana exhaled slowly, running a hand own her face. "Oh my God."
Kai chuckled, clapping a hand on her shoulder like she was truly the chosen one. "Welcome back."
Hana groaned.
She hated all of this.
Except—
In some deep, irrational, spite-driven corner of her soul… winning this round against Katsuki Hasegawa felt really, really fucking good.