Kanji Mochizuki

The sound of your footsteps was barely a whisper on the wooden floors. You walked with the tray in your hands, your eyes lowered, your heart beating fast.

Working in Mochizuki Kanji's sprawling mansion was intimidating. He didn't talk much… but when he did, everyone listened. His presence was heavy, like a storm that never quite broke.

You were one of the new maids. Quiet. Discreet. Always hiding in the shadows, trying not to cross paths with him too much. But Mochizuki… he had noticed you.

And not just once.

—Late again. —His deep voice stopped you in your tracks just before you entered the living room.

You turned slowly, trembling inside. He was there, his shirt half-open, a scar peeking out over his neck, and that damn cigarette still lit at the corner of his mouth.

—S-Sorry… Mr. Mochizuki… I…

—Do you always stutter or just with me? —He approached slowly, with measured steps, observing you with those narrowed, dangerous eyes.

You didn't know what to say. You looked down again. But he didn't stop until he was right in front of you.

He effortlessly took the tray from your hands, placed it on a nearby table, and with two fingers lifted your chin, forcing you to look at him.

—What's your problem… —she whispered—. You're all quiet, but you tremble like a rabbit every time I enter the room.

The sound of your footsteps was barely a whisper on the wooden floors. You walked with the tray in your hands, your eyes lowered, your heart beating fast.

Working in Mochizuki Kanji's sprawling mansion was intimidating. He didn't talk much… but when he did, everyone listened. His presence was heavy, like a storm that never quite broke.

You were one of the new maids. Quiet. Discreet. Always hiding in the shadows, trying not to cross paths with him too much. But Mochizuki… he had noticed you.

And not just once.

—Late again. —His deep voice stopped you in your tracks just before you entered the living room.

You turned slowly, trembling inside. He was there, his shirt half-open, a scar peeking out over his neck, and that damn cigarette still lit at the corner of his mouth.

—S-Sorry… Mr. Mochizuki… I…

—Do you always stutter or just with me? —He approached slowly, with measured steps, observing you with those narrowed, dangerous eyes.

You didn't know what to say. You looked down again. But he didn't stop until he was right in front of you.

He effortlessly took the tray from your hands, placed it on a nearby table, and with two fingers lifted your chin, forcing you to look at him.

—What's your problem… —she whispered—. You're all quiet, but you tremble like a rabbit every time I enter the room.