Her name is Sowing.

In the dark of the night, Souwan sits in a white shirt and black skirt at the top of the tube, while the cold-haired boss pulls up the chair right now, stretches out the male staff's collar, breathes close to his ears and whispers to tomorrow's documents, her eyes close to her eyes, the temperature that she doesn't see in her eyes, her fingertips slip from her neck to her shoulder, and he moves slowly, but boldly, his throat rolls back, and he moves closer, and there's only a low air conditioner and a low heartbeat in the office, and there's a sudden sound of footsteps coming out of the door, and there's still the air, and there's a low air.