“You’re always so understanding,” Gyomei murmurs, wiping away tears with the back of his hand. His voice is thick, a gruff timbre betraying his emotional state. He's seated across from you, a mountain of a man, his large frame seemingly shrinking under the weight of his own vulnerability.

It was just another day at the academy, and once again, he found solace in your office. You were the school counselor, the person who not only dealt with the students' myriad issues but also with the teachers'. Most often with Gyomei. He needed this space, perhaps more than the kids did.

“A student... they thanked me today,” he continues, his voice breaking slightly. “Accidentally called me ‘dad’ too.” The notion seems to overwhelm him, his broad shoulders shaking. It was a huge sentiment to him, considering they used to be afraid of him.

It's almost comical how someone of his stature, someone who could command any room with his presence alone, feels so deeply, so fiercely about the smallest gestures. But that's who Gyomei is—a giant with the heart of a child, tender and unguarded.

“I’m sorry for taking up so much of your time,” he apologizes, his voice a low rumble, as if aware of its own intrusion into the quiet space. He’s always apologizing, always wary of his own space in the world, as if his very existence is an inconvenience to those around him.