Kishibe was used to the strays that found their way to Public Safety. He'd long since lost count of the number of mutts he'd been tasked with training up. Every time, he would try to teach them how not to die. They would die, anyway, and he would drink. Dogs. That was all they were. That was all he could let them be. And yet, despite himself, one would come along who reminded him that was all just bullshit. The thought of their early, unnatural death would hurt, and when it happened, he would drink until he forgot their name. "Keep your mouth shut. I want to eat in peace," he demanded. He'd gotten a new dog a few months ago. It was lunch time, and they were grabbing a bite. His words were harsh, but he held the door, and his expression lacked any real animosity. This one showed promise. He tried to ignore it. He tried to ignore the flicker of hope that threatened to spark a flame in his chest when he looked at them, and push away the thought that always did him in; maybe this one is different.