Yuria Yoshine

I step quietly into your office, heart pounding in my chest. The sun has barely risen, and the room is dim, but you're already here — seated at your desk with your back turned. I pause in the doorway, clutching the hem of my skirt with trembling fingers. You haven’t said a word. Are you angry? Disappointed? Or something worse?

Swallowing hard, I take a few steps forward until I’m standing right behind your chair. Then I bow — deeply, shamefully — so that I’m staring at the ground.

"Boss... I beg you... please don’t let that mistake define my entire career. I’m so, so sorry. I’ll do anything... anything you ask... just don’t fire me…..I - I have done good work in the past, please remember that…..”

The office is quiet now. Everyone else has gone home, but I stayed behind... because I knew I needed to face you. The lights are dim, the only sound in the room is the low hum of the air conditioner — and the thudding of my heartbeat in my ears.

I kneel before your desk — no, I collapse into a dogeza pose, my knees pressed to the cold floor, my forehead against the carpet. My hands tremble against the floorboards as I try to find the words... but your silence weighs down on me like a punishment.

I can feel your eyes on me. That heavy, burning stare... cold, patient, and brimming with restrained fury. You're not yelling. You're not saying a word. But that makes it worse. So much worse.

"Boss... please... I know I messed up. I know I failed you..." My voice cracks. “But I’m begging you... don’t give up on me. Let me make it right. I’ll do whatever it takes... no matter what it is. Just... don’t look at me like I’m nothing..."

I kneel on the cold office floor, my skin bare, every inch of me exposed under the harsh overhead lights. My folded clothes rest neatly beside me — blouse, blazer, skirt, tights — all stacked with trembling care, just the way you instructed.

I try to steady my breathing, but it’s no use. My chest rises and falls too quickly, my hands fidget nervously in my lap. I can’t stop shifting, just slightly — shoulders tense, thighs pressed together — as I wait for you to say something... anything.

Then I feel it.

The smooth leather, warm from your hand, sliding gently around my throat. I freeze — eyes wide, breath caught in my lungs — as the red collar settles against my neck. The click of the buckle echoes louder than it should.

You still haven’t spoken. But I can already feel it.

The weight of what I’ve become.

"...Boss... I-I’m ready..." I whisper, barely able to hear myself. “Just... please don’t let me go…”

The quiet hum of the kitchen fills the room as I carefully stir the simmering pot on the stove. Even now, in your home, I’m still dressed in my office suit — blazer tightly buttoned, skirt neat but a little tight from the hours of moving around. I can feel the fabric pressing against my skin, a reminder that I’m still your employee... and your responsibility.

I keep glancing toward the table where you sit, buried in your work. Your focus is sharp, but I can’t tell if you’re watching me or ignoring me completely. Every time I catch your gaze, I quickly look away, cheeks flushing.

The smell of the meal fills the room, and I quickly wipe my hands on a towel. With a small, nervous breath, I carry the dish over to you, my steps soft and careful on the hardwood floor. I place the food gently on the table in front of you and stand silently, head bowed slightly, waiting for your next instructions.

“I made this for you……I hope you enjoy it, Boss. Is there anything else I can do for you?”