The sound of the glass door slamming shut echoed across the open space. Han Iruma watched the slumped silhouette of the man he had just fired disappear beyond the transparent walls. His coworkers pretended not to notice, eyes glued to their screens, but their frozen fingers hovering above keyboards betrayed their attention. No one dared meet his gaze.
"If anyone else thinks forty-eight hours a week is too heavy a burden, follow Tanaka's example. The door is wide open."
His voice, calm and glacial, sliced through the atmosphere like a razor blade. At thirty-two, Han Iruma ran NexGen Industries' finance department with an efficiency matched only by his reputation as a ruthless perfectionist. In the glass and steel tower that loomed over Tokyo's financial district, his name inspired equal parts respect and fear.
He returned to his corner office and adjusted his Hermès tie before sinking into his black leather chair. On his desk, a screen displayed the latest quarterly results: an 18% increase—three points above target. A result that should have pleased him.
"You didn't have to go that hard on Tanaka."
Akira, his deputy, stood in the doorway holding a folder. He was the only one who still dared speak to Han with that kind of franchise.
"Incompetence has no place here," Han replied without looking away from the graphs on the screen. "Tanaka received three warnings in two months. His negligence cost us the Matsushita contract."
"He was going through a tough divorce."
"So what?" Han finally looked up, his gaze as sharp as his tone. "Do stock markets pause because someone has personal issues? Will our competitors go easy on us because one of our analysts is too busy crying over a failed marriage?"
Akira sighed, set the folder down on the desk, and was about to leave when Han added:
"Feelings are a luxury, Akira. We sell results, not excuses."
Left alone, Han gazed out at the city stretching beneath his feet. Tokyo—relentless and eternal—mirrored his worldview perfectly: an environment where only excellence survived. He had clawed his way up through sheer hard work and uncompromising decisions. Orphaned at fourteen, brilliant scholarship student at eighteen, honors graduate at twenty-two, and CFO by thirty. Every step had been a battle, and he had won them all.
His phone vibrated. A message from his secretary reminded him of his board meeting in an hour. Han stood, adjusted his Armani jacket, and picked up the folder Akira had left. Time to present the new expansion strategy into the South Asian markets.
In the elevator to the top floor, Han was already thinking about restructuring the department after Tanaka's departure. The man had been competent, he had to admit—but weakness had no place in his team. The world belonged to those who made the hard decisions.
The meeting went exactly as he had planned. His strategy was approved unanimously, and even the CEO praised his vision. Leaving the conference room, Han felt that cold satisfaction that was his only reward. No joy—just the confirmation that once again, he had excelled.
"Iruma-san, your driver is waiting," his secretary informed him as he returned to his office. "And your dinner at Sakura Restaurant is confirmed for 8 p.m."
Han nodded. A business dinner with potential investors—another evening playing the role he had perfected: the charismatic, relentless businessman everyone wanted on their side and no one dared oppose.
At 7:15 p.m., after finishing a few files, he finally left the building. In the marble-floored lobby, several employees bowed respectfully as he passed. He acknowledged them with the barest of nods.
Outside, night had begun to fall over Tokyo. His black car waited at the curb, his driver standing stiffly by the rear door.
"Good evening, Iruma-san," the driver said with a bow, opening the door.
Han slid into the leather seat and pulled out his phone to check his emails. The vehicle merged into the evening traffic, gliding silently between streams of cars and city lights.
That's when he saw him. Tanaka stood on the opposite sidewalk, frozen amidst the flow of pedestrians. Even from that distance, Han could make out his pale, clenched face. Their eyes met for a split second, and in that moment Han saw something that made him shiver—raw, visceral hatred that twisted the usually placid features of his former employee into a mask of pure rage.
"Is something wrong, sir?" the driver asked, noticing his change in demeanor.
"No. Keep going."
But the unease lingered. Han wasn't the type to worry about the consequences of his decisions. He had fired dozens of employees over his career—some more harshly than Tanaka. Still, that look… There was something different this time, something beyond wounded pride.
The dinner at Sakura Restaurant went as expected. Han had charmed the South Korean investors with his usual blend of quiet confidence and sharp analysis. The deal was practically sealed. Yet throughout the evening, Tanaka's face hovered at the edge of his thoughts.
"You seem preoccupied, Iruma-san," one of the investors noted as they shared a glass of sake to seal the agreement.
"Just tired," he replied with a calculated smile. "Nothing a good night's sleep can't fix."
But that night, sleep didn't come. In his luxurious apartment on the 43rd floor of a high-end residential tower, Han lay awake staring at the ceiling. The city lights cast shifting shadows across the room, creating an almost ghostly atmosphere.
For the first time in a long while, he felt vulnerable. Not because of Tanaka—the very idea was laughable—but because of what he had seen in his eyes. That rage reminded him of something. A forgotten emotion buried deep within.
At five a.m., giving up on sleep, he put on his workout gear and left for his morning jog. The crisp air and steady rhythm of his run gradually chased away the troubling thoughts.
"You're getting sentimental," he scolded himself as he ran along the Sumida River. "Weakness always starts that way."
By 7:30 a.m., showered and dressed in a tailored charcoal-gray suit, Han walked into NexGen Industries. The lobby was already bustling with employees who instinctively stepped aside as he passed. In the elevator, he noticed furtive glances and barely hidden whispers.
"Is there a problem?" he asked coldly to the young woman from the marketing department beside him.
"No, Iruma-san," she replied, lowering her eyes. "It's just… Tanaka-san posted something on social media last night. Nothing important."
Han didn't press, but the moment he reached his office, he summoned Akira.
"What did Tanaka post?"
Akira looked uncomfortable.
"It's stupid, really. Just a wounded man venting his anger."
"Show me," Han demanded, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Akira pulled out his phone and handed it to him. It was a long rant, clearly written in a fit of anger—and probably alcohol-fueled—accusing Han of being a "soulless monster" and vowing he would "pay for his inhumanity." Nothing particularly original or threatening—except for the final line: "Soon, you'll know what it's like to be crushed without mercy."
Han returned the phone with a shrug.
"Alert security to keep an eye on him. Just in case he tries to cause a scene."
The day went on as usual. Han moved through meetings, calls, and analyses as if the incident had never happened. At noon, a message from his secretary confirmed that the Korean investors had officially signed the deal. Another victory to add to his flawless record.
At 6:30 p.m., he left his office, satisfied with the day's productivity. In the lobby, he checked his phone as usual—and saw a message from an unknown sender.
"Look behind you."
Han turned sharply, but saw only the usual stream of employees leaving the building. No one seemed to be paying him any particular attention.
Disturbed despite himself, he stepped outside and saw his car waiting as always. But his usual driver wasn't there.
"Where's Nakamura?" he asked the man standing by the car.
"On sick leave, sir. I'm his replacement for the day."
Something about the man's tone or demeanor set off Han's instinct. He was about to ask for identification when his phone buzzed again. Another message from the same unknown sender.
"Too late."
That was the last thing Han read before the world exploded around him. A sudden force hurled him backward, and for a moment he felt suspended in time. Then came the pain—sharp and all-consuming.
In a haze of fading consciousness, Han saw Tanaka's face lean over him—distorted by a mix of hatred and grim satisfaction.
"I told you you'd understand," he whispered.
Han tried to speak, but his lips no longer obeyed. Warm liquid pooled beneath his head, spreading into a crimson halo on the pavement. Sounds grew distant, muffled like underwater echoes. He saw people gathering, horrified faces, phones raised to record or call for help.
"I'm not like you," Tanaka said, voice trembling. "I didn't want to go this far. But you left me no choice."
Darkness closed in on Han's vision, shrinking his world to a pinpoint of light. His final thought was one of disbelief—rage against the absurdity of it all. He, Han Iruma, brought down not by a worthy rival, but by a mediocre employee he had forgotten the moment he walked out the door.
And then even that thought vanished.Han Iruma ceased to exist.