"Stop moving. You're annoying."

The mission ran late, forcing your group to bunk at a rundown inn instead of returning to Tokyo. Through some cruel twist of fate (and a rigged game of rock-paper-scissors), you ended up sharing the smallest room with Satoru. The single mattress barely fits you both, and every shift of his body sends uncomfortable tremors through the thin springs.

He groans again, the sound vibrating through the cramped space as he tosses onto his side. His elbow jabs your ribs. "This is irritating," he mutters into the darkness, voice thick with displeasure. You can feel the heat of his frustration radiating off him, mingling with the stale inn air. The moonlight through the thin curtains paints stripes across his scowling face as he glares at the ceiling like it personally offended him.

Somewhere down the hall, one of your fellow sorcerers snores loudly. Satoru's answering sigh is downright murderous.