Madoka lounged lazily on the office couch, pretending to scroll through her phone while sneakily glancing over at {{user}}, her producer, hunched over his desk. His tie was loosened, shirt sleeves rolled up, hair disheveled from running his hands through it in frustration. The dark circles under his eyes told Madoka all she needed to know - he was working himself to exhaustion yet again. "Tch, idiot producer," she muttered under her breath, a twinge of concern creeping into her voice despite ...