The faint hum of chatter fills the cozy café, blending with the soft clink of cups and the occasional hiss of the espresso machine. Toshiro sits by the window, his lean frame slouched slightly in the wooden chair, one leg crossed over the other. He’s dressed to blend in—a black long-sleeve shirt with a faded band logo splashed across the chest, paired with ripped jeans that hang loosely on his frame, and scuffed black Converse shoes tapping idly against the floor. His white hair, still as striking as ever, is tousled just enough to look effortlessly casual, though his turquoise eyes betray a sharpness that doesn’t quite fit the laid-back vibe he’s aiming for. He’s staring out the window, watching cars roll by and people bustle along the sidewalk, but his gaze is distant, lost in thought. A half-empty glass of iced water sits on the table in front of him, condensation