The Next Morning at Fujiwara Multimedia
The morning air inside Fujiwara Multimedia's modern, sleek building was quiet and filtered with the soft hum of printers and low murmurs of early risers. Yume stood alone by the office coffee station, carefully pouring hot coffee into a white ceramic mug. She wasn't a morning person, but the solitude of these early hours offered her a pocket of peace before the inevitable chaos of deadlines and meetings.
She stirred her coffee absentmindedly, thinking about a scene she wanted to write—one about vulnerability, about invisible threads between hearts. The world might not understand it, but stories, to her, were more than market trends. They were truths too often left unsaid.
Just as she reached for the sugar, a voice pierced the silence.
Ayaka:
Well, well—look who's here early. Trying to impress someone?
Yume: (glancing up, polite)
Good morning, Ayaka-senpai. No, I just like having a quiet moment before things get busy.
Ayaka: (smiling as she pours her own coffee)
Ah, the quiet creative type. That tracks. Very… romanticized. Almost like a character from one of your little stories.
Yume: (softly)
I guess I am a little old-fashioned when it comes to writing.
Ayaka:
Mmm. You know, that's sweet. But maybe a little dangerous in this field.
Yume: (blinking)
Dangerous?
Ayaka: (tilting her head, taking a sip)
Well, yes. This is Fujiwara Multimedia, not a diary club. It's a business. What matters is what sells, not what feels poetic at 2 a.m.
Yume: (quietly)
I understand… but I still believe stories can have both heart and purpose.
Ayaka: (smirking)
That's adorable. Really. But unfortunately, heart doesn't trend on social media, darling.
You want engagement? You ride the wave. Emotion alone? That sinks faster than a scandal.
Yume: (gripping her cup tighter, but remaining composed)
I think there are readers who still want something meaningful.
Ayaka:
Sure, sure. All five of them.
(laughs lightly)
Come on, Yume. Be real. You think The Invisible Thread would've survived in a real marketplace?
That one stung more than she let on.
She thought of The Invisible Thread—her book, her soul. A story born from the silent grief she could never say aloud, shaped into words during long nights when everything else in her life felt like it was slipping through her fingers.
She hadn't written it to sell. She'd written it to breathe.
Ayaka mocked it with a joke and a smile.
Was that what this world would do to her? Laugh at her until she laughed too—just to survive?
Yume: (tensing)
It wasn't about success. It was something I needed to write.
Ayaka:
Exactly. You needed it.
But here, in the real world, need doesn't make money. Trends do.
You want to write? Write about revenge. Scandals. Rich kids falling from grace. That's what people want.
Yume: (carefully)
But if we only follow what people expect, don't we lose the chance to tell something new?
Ayaka: (smiling sweetly)
Yume-chan…
You're cute when you're idealistic. But don't mistake idealism for talent.
This industry—
(pauses, then lowers her voice slightly)
—it eats girls like you for breakfast.
But was it idealism? Or just hope?
Her fingers curled slightly around the coffee cup, not from anger, but to hold on to something steady. She had survived worse than this—smiles that sliced, voices that doubted, people who judged her by what they could not see.
Still, Ayaka's words left a bruise. Not because they were true. But because they were meant to make her believe they were.
Yume didn't flinch. But she felt it.
The quiet violence of being told you're not enough—wrapped in advice and sugar-coated in sarcasm.
She forced a smile again, as if the bitterness hadn't settled deep behind her ribs.
Yume: (softly but firmly)
Is that a warning?
Ayaka: (eyes widening in mock innocence)
Oh no, not at all. Just… sisterly advice. You know I look out for the newbies. Especially the ones with stars in their eyes and tragic prose in their notebooks.
(She lets out a small laugh, brushing her hair over her shoulder.)
Ayaka:
Besides, we can't all be dreamy writers. Some of us have to sell the dream.
Yume smiled faintly, but inside, the words were still hanging in her chest like smoke that refused to clear.
She knew.
Ayaka didn't like her. Not really. She never had.
Maybe it was because Yume didn't try to compete. Maybe because she didn't boast. Or maybe because, in Ayaka's eyes, Yume didn't belong here. Not in the glittering, aggressive world of commercial storytelling, where stories were bent to the will of hashtags and trends.
Yume: (calmly)
I'd rather build it. Even if only a few see it.
Ayaka: (eyes narrowing ever so slightly, but she masks it with a chuckle)
Admirable.
Naïve, but admirable.
Just don't let that little dream get in the way of your job here, okay?
(She turns to leave, then looks over her shoulder with a mock-cheerful smile.)
Ayaka:
Anyway, coffee's good today. But careful not to spill any of that "emotion" in your reports. The editors hate messes.
From just around the corner of the coffee station, behind the slim column separating the corridor from the break area, Ren stood still.
He had come for coffee. Simple. Silent.
And then he heard voices. Familiar ones.
Yume. And Ayaka.
At first, he hadn't intended to listen. But the moment Ayaka's honeyed sarcasm slipped into the air, something in his chest tightened.
"We can't all be dreamy writers…"
His fingers clenched slightly at his side. Ayaka's tone was dangerous. Not overtly cruel—no, she was too smart for that. But Ren could read people. She knew exactly what she was doing.
He listened.
Every word.
Every insult wrapped in kindness. Every false smile. Every veiled threat.
"Don't mistake idealism for talent."
His jaw flexed.
Ayaka was trying to crush Yume from the inside—quietly. Methodically. And worst of all, she was enjoying it.
Ren's blood simmered, not just from anger—but from restraint. Because he couldn't do anything. Not as he truly was.
Right now, he wasn't the heir to the Fujiwara legacy. He was just Fushiguro Ren, the "intern," standing in a hallway with no power and no authority.
He couldn't storm in and tell Ayaka to back off.
He couldn't expose her.
He couldn't protect Yume the way he wanted to.
But he could interrupt.
He could pull Yume away.
And he could let Ayaka know—someone was watching.
He had only come down for tea, but what he heard made his blood boil.
He took a deep breath, wiped every trace of emotion from his face, and stepped out with a calm, cool expression.
"Ayaka-san," Ren said casually, walking up to them, "good morning."
Both women turned. Yume's surprise was genuine—he wasn't usually around this early.
Ren looked at Yume. "I was actually looking for you."
Yume blinked. "For me?"
He nodded. "Mr. Jin asked me to pass something along to you. Something work-related—he said it was urgent." He smiled lightly, not breaking eye contact. "Mind if I borrow you for a few minutes?"
"Oh," Yume stammered, "sure."
Ren turned slightly toward Ayaka, smile still in place. "Ah, and Ayaka-san? I heard what you said. Very passionate advice." His tone was light, but there was an edge in his eyes.
"I'll keep it in mind if I ever decide to write a tragedy," he added with a small laugh. "Or maybe a satire."
He bowed politely. "Excuse us."
Yume followed, confused but grateful, as Ren gently led her away from the coffee station and into the quieter hallway, eventually guiding her toward the office cafeteria where only a few early birds were scattered across the tables.
AYAKA'S INNER Monologue After fushiguro and yume left.....
(Right after Ren interrupts her conversation with Yume)
"Yume—there's something Mr. Jin asked me to check with you. It's urgent."
The voice came so smoothly, so suddenly, it made Ayaka's smile freeze for just half a second.
She turned, and there he was.
Fushiguro Ren.
The so-called new intern. Quiet. Polite. Ridiculously composed.
Too composed.
She had clocked him the moment he arrived a few days ago. He didn't carry himself like a rookie. No hesitations. No scrambling to impress. He moved through the office like he already knew the architecture of power—and didn't feel the need to ask for permission.
That in itself was suspicious. Or intriguing. Or both.
Still, she had dismissed him. A quiet intern with a quiet voice? No threat.
But then he looked at her.
That look.
Those eyes—flat, unreadable, but sharp enough to slice through silk.
There was no smile in them. Not really. Just… calculation.
He heard everything.
She was sure of it. Maybe not every word, but enough. Enough to catch the edges of her little performance with Yume.
Still, he didn't call her out. He didn't argue. He didn't get emotional.
He warned her.
But he did it with a joke.
> "Careful with the coffee. I hear bitterness stains faster than caffeine."
The words were featherlight, but the message landed like lead.
She kept her laugh perfectly balanced. Breezy. Unbothered. But her brain had already begun working overtime.
That wasn't just a witty intern. That was strategy.
He had waited, listened, and struck in the one place she couldn't retaliate—subtext. A perfectly veiled jab. No proof. No confrontation. Just enough for her to know she'd been seen.
Why does an intern care this much about Yume?
That was the other question clawing at the edge of her thoughts.
They barely knew each other. Or did they?
She hadn't missed the shift in Yume's posture when Ren appeared—like someone had tossed her a lifeline. And Ren didn't just interrupt. He rescued. Cleanly. Without fuss.
Very, very clean.
Too clean.
Her instincts were rarely wrong. And right now, they were screaming.
Fushiguro Ren isn't what he says he is.
But what was he?
A planted executive spy? A relative of someone higher-up? A silent scout for corporate reshuffling?
Whoever he was, he wasn't going to be easy to rattle.
And worse—he had eyes like someone who didn't forget a single word.
She sipped her coffee again, the taste suddenly bitter.
She'd have to be careful.
Because if he ever stopped joking and decided to speak plainly—
She might not be able to laugh her way out of it.
Cafeteria – A Gentle Confrontation
Ren led her to a corner booth, away from prying eyes and ears. Once seated, his smile faded. He looked at her for a moment, then folded his hands on the table.
"Yume," he said quietly, "what did she say to you?"
Yume's fingers curled around her coffee cup. She looked away. "Nothing serious. Just… office banter."
He frowned. "You don't really believe that."
She hesitated. "It's fine. I'm used to it."
"Used to it?" Ren leaned slightly forward, his voice still soft but intense. "That doesn't make it okay."
She didn't reply, sipping her coffee instead.
Ren waited a beat, then spoke again—gentler this time. "I saw your face. I heard enough to know she wasn't just joking. Why are you pretending it didn't hurt?"
Yume looked down. "Because I don't want to make it a big deal. She's my senior, and I'm… no one."
Ren's jaw tensed. "Don't say that."
She smiled faintly. "It's the truth. I'm just an intern. She has more experience. Maybe she's right—emotion doesn't sell. Maybe The Invisible Thread was just… sentimental fluff."
"Stop."
Ren's voice was suddenly sharp, then softened again. "Don't do that to yourself. That book was beautiful."
Yume's eyes widened slightly.
"I read it," he confessed. "Back when it was first released online. It felt… honest. Like someone was finally saying things people were too afraid to feel."
"You… read it?"
He nodded. "Twice."
She was speechless.
Ren exhaled slowly, leaning back. "Look, I know this company values numbers, engagement, market analytics, all that. But none of that means anything without soul. Without emotion."
His eyes met hers. "What Ayaka said—those weren't jokes. She meant to cut you down and make you doubt yourself. And I don't like that. Not one bit."
"But why does it matter to you?" Yume asked softly, her voice trembling a little. "Why do you care so much?"
Ren stared at her for a long moment. There were so many things he wanted to say.
Because I hate watching you hurt.
Because I've cared about your words since before I even knew your name.
Because I know exactly who you are.
Because I'm not just Fushiguro Ren.
But he said none of those things. Not yet.
Instead, he said, "Because I believe in you."
Yume blinked rapidly, as if trying to process the weight of his words.
"Next time someone mocks your writing," he added, voice calm but firm, "don't stay quiet. Say something. Or if you can't—tell me. I'll speak for you."
Yume smiled, this time with a flicker of genuine warmth. "Thank you… fushiguro."
He smiled back. "Anytime."
As they sat there, quietly sipping their drinks, a silence settled between them—not awkward, but comfortable, like the gentle hush between two verses in a song.
From the distance, a clock ticked toward the start of another hectic workday. But for now, in this small corner of Fujiwara Multimedia, two hearts sat a little closer—bound by invisible threads only they could feel.