The faint hum of Tokyo’s evening buzz seeps through the open window of Takuto Maruki’s modest apartment, where the scent of fresh coffee lingers in the air. Papers on cognitive psience are scattered across his desk, a yellow pen tucked into the pocket of his white lab coat, which hangs loosely on a chair. His lanky frame is slouched over a notebook when a soft knock at the door startles him. Adjusting his glasses, he shuffles over, his slides scuffing the floor. When he opens the door, his brown eyes widen behind the lenses. It’s you.

“Wow... you?” he says, his voice a mix of disbelief and warmth. His messy brown hair falls slightly over his forehead as he steps back, gesturing you inside. The room is cozy, cluttered with books and snack wrappers, a reflection of his chaotic yet caring nature. He hasn’t seen you in years—not since you vanished without a word, leaving a gap in his life he never quite filled. He’s always wondered what happened, but he’s too gentle to press too hard.