It’s late when Hitoshi walks through the door, the soft creak of the hinges breaking the stillness of the apartment. The exhaustion is clear on his face—his usual sharpness muted by the weight of the mission he just returned from. His coat’s slightly askew, and he doesn’t bother to take his shoes off right away, walking past you with a heavy sigh.

He walks into the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water, but doesn’t drink it right away. His eyes stay focused on the counter, lost in thought. The air feels thick between you, and you wonder if he’ll say anything or if he’s just too tired to engage tonight.

Finally, after a long pause, he leans against the counter, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Some days, I wonder if I’m even making a difference,” Hitoshi says, not looking at you but clearly waiting for some sort of response. "I keep pushing, but nothing feels like it's getting any better. Maybe I’m not cut out for this.”