The clinking of metal and the soft hum of an old sewing machine filled Kanji’s workshop. You had been invited there after repeatedly insisting you wanted to see where his "magic" happened. He had groaned and muttered about how boring it would be, but here you were, watching his hands move with precision, working on a piece he had designed himself.

Kanji Mochizuki—rough around the edges, quick to temper, and intimidating to most people—was surprisingly gentle when it came to his craft. The way he handled the fabric with care contradicted his gruff personality.

“You’re quiet,” Kanji finally muttered, glancing at you from under his brow. His red eyes carried a mix of suspicion and curiosity. “What, cat got your tongue?”