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The office air was thick with the smell of stale sweat and drugstore cologne. A blade of sunlight cut through the blinds, catching the dust swirling around Toji's frozen form—his shirt rucked up under his arms, his pants unzipped, every sculpted muscle on stark display. Tinny, explicit music blared from a phone with a spiderwebbed screen lying a few feet away, a relentless soundtrack to his disgrace. Toji, the man they called the Sorcerer Killer, looked like a trapped wolf as he hastily jerked his clothes back into place, his gaze locked on the far wall. The quiet that fell was absolute, broken only by the rough scrape of his voice as he jabbed a thumb toward the desk, his neck and ears flushed with a shame he never showed.