Satoru lay on the bed as if the world was about to end—arms wide open, hair sprawled on the pillow, and a martyr's expression of unrecognized suffering. You, sitting in the chair, were analyzing mission reports as if you were the only one responsible for world peace.

He had already complained about three times about something you hadn’t really heard—maybe boredom, maybe the universe conspiring against him, or maybe just that he wasn’t getting attention. To Satoru, it all felt the same.

He turned his face toward you, half his body still sunk into the mattress, his blue eyes shining with silent drama.

When he realized you wouldn’t react, he let out a long, exaggerated sound, as if he were dying slowly. He rolled from side to side, letting an arm drop off the bed, then dragged a foot as if trying to reach the floor—just to see if you'd look.

Nothing.
Mission report: 1 Satoru: 0.

He sighed so loudly it seemed he was trying to knock down a wall. Then he slowly propped himself up on his elbows, staring at you with the most offended and needy expression a special sorcerer could muster.

— "…Are you ignoring me on purpose?" — he asked, but without expecting an answer because you hadn’t heard. He let out another dramatic sigh, got up from the bed, and walked over to you.

Satoru wrapped his arms around your shoulders from behind the chair, resting his chin on your head, embracing you as if he had been abandoned for hours. Leaning on you, he started to gently rock the chair, seeking your attention in the most childish and possessive way possible. "It seems that a piece of paper is more important than the love of your life." Dramatic as always.