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The air smelled like cheap alcohol, catering sushi, and questionable decisions. No one really knew how they had ended up like this: sprawled across Mei Mei’s penthouse lounge, cheeks flushed, glasses empty, and the fateful idea of playing Seven Minutes in Heaven looming over them. It had all started as a “small after-party,” just a casual quarterly wrap-up toast… and now this.
“First round,” announced Suguru, Head of HR, spinning the bottle with a flair no internal regulation could ever justify. The tip landed on Shoko. Then he spun the second bottle. Fate—cruel and capricious—pointed to… Ijichi.
Ijichi went pale, then red, as if he had just received an audit email with Mei Mei CC’d. Shoko simply looked at him, expressionless, glass in hand, as if she were considering diagnosing him with chronic hypertension.
And Satoru was outraged.
“It doesn’t count! That doesn’t count! Ijichi can’t go with Shoko! He has flat feet! What if they fall because of him?!” Satoru shouted, jumping to his feet like someone had just canceled his corporate Dunkin’ Donuts coupons.
“Who the hell brings up flat feet in a game like this?” Utahime whispered to Haibara, who simply shrugged.
“Also!” Satoru continued, now kneeling on the floor. “The angle is off! The tile! This company has standards, and that tile does NOT!”
A heavy silence fell over the room. Everyone stared at him.
“The… angle of what?” Nanami asked, not even looking up from his glass, as if locking eyes with Gojo wasn’t worth the effort.
Unfazed, Satoru crouched down dramatically and began inspecting the floor with his fingers, like an archaeologist uncovering a sacred site.
“Yes, yes… I knew it. Right here. An imperfection,” he said, touching a perfectly normal tile. “Tiny, but enough to alter the bottle’s trajectory. This is science, people.”
“You’re sick,” Utahime huffed, crossing her arms. “No one’s falling for that crap.”
“I agree with Iori-senpai. You’re just mad it didn’t land on Ieri-san,” Nanami muttered, swirling the whisky in his glass. His tie was gone, and someone — probably Yuki — had stuck a “I’m the boss” sticker on his back without him noticing.
Satoru, face flushed and brow furrowed, was just about to argue — ready to say he was merely looking out for his dear colleague, whom he had known since high school — when, unexpectedly, Mei Mei interrupted. From her armchair, wine glass in hand, legs crossed elegantly, her expression perfectly neutral, she spoke in a languid voice:
“I think Gojo’s right. It’s an unnecessary risk.”
The silence that followed was absolute. Almost offensive.
Satoru looked at Mei Mei like she was an angel descending from the heavens — and not the woman who regularly overworked them until the end of the month. Maybe being family had its perks after all... though, knowing her, he should probably start counting the bills in his wallet.
“You’re siding with him?” Utahime stared at her like she’d just announced she was joining a cult.
“Well,” Mei Mei said, swirling her glass, “if you think about it, any tilt variation affects the game. It would be naïve to ignore those conditions. Logically, we should restart the round.”
Suguru burst out laughing so hard he nearly choked on his beer. Nanami shook his head. Utahime was speechless. Haibara clapped like it was some kind of detective drama or something.
Satoru simply smiled with his eyes closed, perfectly satisfied, as he straightened up.
“Truth above all. I’m glad there are still reasonable people in this room.”
“You’re manipulating the game,” Utahime muttered through gritted teeth, glaring at him with absolute contempt.
“I’m preventing tragedies,” he corrected solemnly, pointing at the tile again like it was some kind of death trap.
Suguru let out another laugh so loud he nearly spat out his drink.
“I can’t— Satoru, what the hell are you even saying?!” He slapped him on the back, laughing like he was at a comedy show. He knew damn well about his little crush on Shoko, even if Gojo had never said it out loud — it wasn’t exactly hard to notice.
Satoru, meanwhile, was trying to settle back into his spot with all the calm in the world, as if he hadn’t just caused the scandal of the century. Haibara was already whispering to Suguru, eager to point out something he found suspicious.
“Hey, Geto-san, don’t you think it’s super weird that Mei Mei helped him…?” he murmured conspiratorially, like he’d just uncovered a secret plot.
Suguru let out a muffled chuckle. Everyone knew Satoru’s deal was pure nepotism—everyone except sweet, naïve Haibara, who still believed it was raw talent. Meanwhile, Shoko was pouring herself another beer, completely unfazed by the chaos, like none of it concerned her.
And when the bottle spun again, the universe—or fate with a sense of humor—did the inevitable: Shoko and Satoru.
Utahime, already drunk, tried to stumble up from the couch.
“NO! Don’t let him in there with her! He’s like a parasite! It’s not safe!” Her voice cracked in a mix of alarm and defeat, throwing a tantrum like a little kid, but no one stopped her. No one dared step in.
Nanami, on the other hand, sighed in resignation.
“My condolences, Ieiri-san. Stay strong.”
Satoru was already taking her by the arm, his grin so wide it looked like it had been drawn with a marker. Shoko didn’t resist. She didn’t make a fuss—she just observed, almost… almost amused. The slight curve at the corner of her lips said everything her face didn’t.
Just then, the doorbell rang and Mei Mei opened it. Ino stepped in, carrying a tray of onigiri.
“Uhm, guys, I brought this for…”
He froze at the sight: Utahime on the verge of an emotional collapse, Suguru crying with laughter on the floor, Satoru walking across the room like it was a runway, and Shoko with a wine glass in one hand and a half-empty beer in the other, serene as a painting.
Ino blinked.
"…You know what? Forget it."
He turned around in silence and disappeared down the hallway.
Nanami let out another sigh and murmured,
"He did the right thing."
As they walked away toward the closet, their footsteps echoed against the floor like a verdict. He walked as if he'd just won the lottery, and Shoko—well, she had nothing left to lose.
"We can still spin it again! Maybe the twist was loose!" Ijichi shouted, not sounding too hopeful, raising the bottle as if it could somehow undo fate.
...
Inside, the darkness was warm and comforting. The air smelled of old wood, dry fabric, perfume. They were so close that any movement meant brushing against each other. Satoru, who was usually arrogant and confident, was clearly nervous. He spoke nonstop, almost like he needed to fill the silence with anything.
"Did you know... the universe can collapse in on itself if the critical density of dark matter exceeds... well, something?" He swallowed. "God, it’s hot in here, isn’t it? You’re hot. I mean, it’s hot. You’re hot too, but—"
"Wow, slow down. You’re hyperventilating," Shoko cut in with a breathy laugh, tilting her face slightly toward him. "Keep going like that and you’ll get paresthesia."
Satoru blinked.
"That’s a real word, right?"
She just laughed. Her voice had that low, slow cadence, as if the cramped space belonged to her. Satoru looked at her like he’d run out of words for the first time in his life.
"Well, sure. I mean, why wouldn’t it be?" He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "So uh… how was that movie you watched last week?"
Shoko gave the faintest smile, enjoying this way more than she’d ever admit. Satoru was sweating a little, breath quickened, and despite the barely-there space between them, he looked more cornered than ever. She watched him from beneath her lashes, calm and collected, the exact opposite of his nerves—like she already knew what was going to happen before he even had a chance to guess it.
And then, with no rush, she simply closed the distance…
She kissed him.
It was slow, like tasting something for the first time. Unhurried, wet, and full of intent. Satoru froze for a moment, surprised, and then kissed her back with a growing intensity. His hands, shaky at first, turned sure; his tongue slid against hers with a hunger he could barely hide, like he’d been waiting for this far too long. He tried to set the pace, to hold it back—but she wasn’t going to make it easy.
"Are you okay, Satoru?" she whispered against his mouth, licking gently at the corner of his lip.
It was rare for her to use his first name. That alone caused a small short-circuit in his brain. A ridiculously soft sound slipped out of him.
"Me? Yeah. Totally. Great," he answered, voice hoarse, one trembling hand on her waist.
And then she kissed him again—deeper this time—and he responded with a firmness he hadn’t shown before. Their mouths collided in a messy, hungry rhythm, neither of them fully giving in. Shoko pressed her body against his, taking control with a light bite to his lower lip. Satoru let out a breathless chuckle and returned the gesture, cupping her face in his hands like he had no intention of letting her go.
He tried to pull her closer, to drag her against him with clumsy urgency—but Shoko was faster. Or maybe just bolder. In the midst of their soft struggle, one single movement from her—he wasn’t even sure if it was intentional—was all it took. In a matter of seconds, she was straddling him. She settled on top of him with almost mocking ease, knees on either side of his hips, breath ragged. Satoru let out a choked sound he tried to mask with a cough, but his expression gave him away.
At first, it was him who pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her and guiding her hips down onto his lap. His hands stayed there, setting the rhythm, steering her with a touch that said far more than words ever could.
And then she started moving against him—slow, deliberate, searching for friction—as if she knew exactly how to break him apart. She wasn’t in a hurry. She liked watching him bite his lip, hold his breath, as if that could help him hold onto even a shred of control.
Shoko’s lips, dark red like wine, marked his mouth, his neck, his collarbone. She pulled back just slightly to look at him with those calm brown eyes that always hid something burning beneath. Then she pushed his head back, exposing his throat, and kissed his skin—biting, licking, shameless—leaving a warm trail that made him moan, breathless and raw.
"You're shaking," she whispered, amused, feeling his hands tremble slightly as they slid under his shirt, brushing against his lower abdomen.
"I'm not—... fuck..." Satoru closed his eyes when he felt her nails lightly scratch his skin. His hands were steady on her waist, as if that alone could anchor him to something.
Their mouths met again—wet, messy—and he was no longer pretending to be in control. Shoko was moving against him with more insistence now, right over his obvious erection; both of them gasped between kisses, breaths growing shorter and more uneven.
When her hand slid down toward his crotch, as naturally as lighting a cigarette, Satoru stopped her.
Not firmly.
Not with conviction.
Just the clumsy, resigned attempt of someone who already knew he was going to give in.
"Wait… it's gonna be way too obvious. We can't… I mean, clearly we are being obvious already, but… this would be more obvious."
His voice was barely a whisper, shaky, as if every word strained to keep him balanced on the fragile thread of self-control he had left. But Shoko was watching him from so close, she could feel every vibration in his chest. She didn’t pull away. Not even an inch.
"More obvious than my lipstick all over your throat?" she whispered with wicked amusement—and then bit him, right between the neck and shoulder. She didn’t give him time to answer.
He let out a low moan, as if trying to swallow the sound, but gripped her with both hands—one on her back, the other on her hip—desperately trying to stay grounded. The heat inside that tiny closet was already stifling, but she made it unbearably delicious.
Shoko slid closer, moving with that slow, arrogant rhythm that said she had all the time in the world—as if she knew she had him exactly where she wanted.
"There’ll be too much noise —" he murmured, though he didn’t even sound bothered. He sounded enchanted. Defeated. Like he cared and didn’t, all at once.
"You think so?" she whispered, and kissed him again—slow at first, but within seconds, he had completely lost control. He kissed her like he needed the air she was stealing from him, mouth open, tongue seeking hers with frantic hunger.
Satoru’s hands slipped under her blouse—urgent, wide, tracing the heat of her back. She arched against him, their bodies pressed close, no space left between them. And when she brushed her palm over his crotch again, this time he didn’t stop her.
"Shit..." he gasped, barely audible, burying his face into her neck.
Shoko smiled, her lips brushing against his ear.
"Can’t get more obvious than this," she whispered.
...
On the other side of the door, the group had already started murmuring, restless from the prolonged silence.
"Have seven minutes passed yet?" Haibara asked with feigned innocence, though he kept sneaking glances at the closet door with a poorly concealed smile.
"No, but someone’s making the closet door moan," Suguru said, lounging casually on the couch, laughing again as he poured himself another drink. His tone was half teasing, half resigned—like he was talking about inevitable natural phenomena: rain, or an eclipse.
Nanami, frowning, let out a long sigh before getting up. He adjusted the sleeves of his shirt with visible irritation and walked toward the door with firm, deliberate steps.
"Excuse me... it’s been long enough. And..." He paused briefly, first glancing at Haibara—who just shrugged—then at the door—which was vibrating slightly—and finally at the floor, scanning between empty bottles and scattered shoes as if trying, for one fleeting second, to locate the group’s lost dignity.
He stopped in front of the closet. For a moment, his hand hovered in the air, uncertain, before he knocked—twice, sharply. Not aggressive, but with unmistakable firmness: the emotional equivalent of a "that’s enough" delivered by someone who definitely charges overtime for putting up with this kind of thing.
On the other side, it took Satoru and Shoko a few seconds to pull themselves together. The sound of the latch turning was followed by a brief rustling of clothes, muffled huffs, and poorly contained whispers.
When they finally stepped out, they looked disheveled, breathless, and clinging to a dignity half rebuilt.
Shoko, with smudged lipstick, had her hair in complete disarray and eyes as calm as if she’d just woken from the most refreshing nap.
Satoru, on the other hand, had swollen lips, kiss marks on his jaw, and an unmistakable erection, barely concealed by a jacket clumsily tied around his waist. He looked caught somewhere between shame, pride, and a full-on nervous breakdown.
"Someone had a good time," Suguru sing-songed, raising his glass in a toast, and added with a smirk, "Need some ice for your… situation?"
He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.
"Shut up," Satoru muttered through gritted teeth, unable to stop the strangled laugh that slipped out purely from nerves, swatting Suguru’s shoulder in a way that barely passed for subtle.
From the couch, Mei Mei gave them a thumbs-up without even looking up from her phone. As always, she seemed to know exactly what had happened… and not have the time to pretend she cared.
Utahime was asleep, hugging a completely stiff Ijichi, who had cracked one eye open at the sound of the commotion—while the rest of him tried to merge into the couch like it was a survival tactic.
The room tried to return to some semblance of normalcy: muffled giggles, knowing glances, and a few lazy claps filled the space while Shoko, unbothered, calmly settled on the edge of the couch.
She stretched out her arm and, without bothering to ask, took a sip from Nanami’s glass before crossing her legs with absolute composure.
“So… who’s next?” she asked, her voice perfectly neutral—like half the room wasn’t staring at her with their mouths slightly open.
It was in that moment that everyone understood, with absolute certainty, that there was no beating Shoko Ieiri at this game.