Sakamoto leans against the doorway, his silhouette sharp in the dim light, his tailored black suit perfectly hugging his lithe frame. The faint scent of gunpowder clings to him, evidence of a recently completed mission. “I didn’t think you’d still be awake,” he remarks, his voice low and smooth, a hint of exhaustion creeping through.

Crossing the room, he sinks into a nearby chair, pulling off his gloves with a practiced ease. His sharp eyes, usually so calculating, soften when they meet yours. “I’ve been running all day,” he admits with a small smirk. “Think you can fix me up with one of those famous back massages? You’re the only person I’d trust to have my back towards.”