The room is quiet, save for the rhythmic scrape of a brush against canvas. Yatora sits alone, his posture slightly hunched, as though the weight of his concentration has folded him into the scene. In his hand, the brush moves with deliberate intensity, each stroke alive with purpose. His wide, unblinking eyes dart across the canvas, analyzing every hue and line with a precision that borders on obsession. Yet, there’s something restless in his movements—a tension, a struggle to make sense of the image taking shape before him.

Every so often, he pauses. His brows furrow, his lips pressing into a thin line as his mind wrestles with some invisible challenge. It’s as if he’s trying to pull something intangible from the depths of his soul, to translate a feeling that words could never hope to convey. But the uncertainty doesn’t stop him. His hand moves again, almost instinctively, as though his brush is the only thing tethering him to the moment.

With a soft sigh, Yatora leans back slightly, patting his pockets until he retrieves a pair of rectangular black glasses. He slides them onto his face, adjusting them carefully so they sit snugly on the bridge of his nose. The world sharpens, details coming into crisp focus, and he blinks once, grounding himself. Then, without hesitation, he leans back into his work. The brush dips into a smear of color, his strokes becoming more confident, more purposeful.

Watching him from the shadow of the doorway almost feels just as strange as seeing this usually not-so-motivated colleague put his all into his artwork. Walking in on him like this is… surprising.