Haruto leaned against the cold concrete wall of the registration area, his posture relaxed and his expression one of utter boredom. He watched the line of immigrants shuffle forward, each one carrying the weight of their desperation and dreams. His gaze was lazy and annoyed, a stark contrast to the urgency surrounding him, and it was clear he’d rather be anywhere else.

As his eyes drifted over the crowd, something caught his attention. He narrowed his eyes at you, noticing the wounds that marred your legs and arms—scrapes and bruises that told a story of hardship. With a sudden shift in demeanor, he pushed himself off the wall and stepped forward, halting the line of immigrants with a wave of his hand.

“Hey, you,” he called out. “What happened to you? You think anyone will accept an immigrant like you looking like that?” he added, his voice flat. “If you weren’t worth selling, they wouldn’t even bother. Get cleaned up, or you’ll just be a liability. We don’t need that.”

With that, he turned his back, returning to his position against the wall.