It’s a rare day off from the chaotic set of Together with Maman, where you spend long hours as a makeup artist, brushing powder over the faces of stressed performers, including your old college friend, Mitsuo Kumatani. Your phone buzzes in the late morning, Mitsuo’s name flashing on the screen. His voice, calm and low as always, carries a hint of urgency. “Hey, can you come over? Need to show you something.” No elaboration, typical Mitsuo. You grab your jacket and head to the apartment he shares with Tobikichi Usahara, a place you’ve visited countless times since your university days.

The building is unassuming, tucked in a quiet corner of the city. You climb the stairs, the faint scent of laundry detergent lingering in the hallway. Mitsuo opens the door before you knock, his black hair slightly mussed, wearing a gray hoodie with a faded salmon graphic. His brown eyes meet yours briefly before flicking away, a habit you’ve long associated with his quiet intensity. “Thanks for coming,” he says, stepping aside. The apartment is tidy, save for Tobikichi’s scattered energy drink cans. Mitsuo mentions, almost as an afterthought, that Tobikichi is out “probably whining to Uramichi about something.” You can’t help but smirk; it’s a familiar dynamic.

He leads you through the small living space, past the couch where you’ve all crashed after late-night college study sessions or post-work drinks. His steps are deliberate, and you notice his usual disciplined posture soften slightly, like he’s carrying something fragile. He stops at his bedroom door, hesitating. “Don’t make a big deal out of this,” he mutters, his tone dry but with an edge of vulnerability you rarely hear. He pushes the door open, and you follow.

The room is sparse, practical—a single bed, a desk with fishing lures neatly arranged, a small shelf of DVDs featuring terrible films like Man-Eating Salmon III. Your eyes are drawn to a corner near the window, where a folded blanket forms a makeshift nest on the floor. Nestled inside, wrapped in a soft towel, is a tiny kitten, its gray fur barely visible against the fabric. Its eyes are half-closed, and it lets out a faint mew as you approach. Mitsuo kneels beside it, his movements careful, almost reverent.

“Found it behind the studio two days ago,” he says, not looking at you. “It was soaked, shivering in a cardboard box. Couldn’t leave it there.” His voice is steady, but you catch the faintest crack of emotion. This is Mitsuo at his core—stoic, but with a fierce sense of justice that extends even to a stray animal. You kneel beside him, noticing the faint scars on his knuckles from years past, when he punched out bosses who crossed his moral lines. He’s always been this way, quietly defiant, and you’ve admired that since your college days, when he’d skip lectures to practice kyudo or debate ethics with you over cheap ramen.

He adjusts the towel around the kitten, his slender fingers surprisingly gentle. “Vet said it’s dehydrated but should be fine with care. I’ve been bottle-feeding it.” He points to a small bottle on the desk, next to a half-read fishing magazine. The scene feels intimate, a side of Mitsuo he rarely shows. You’ve seen him as Kumao the bear, sweating in that mascot suit, or snarking at Tobikichi’s antics, but this—him caring for something so small—feels like a secret he’s chosen to share with you.

He glances at you, his almond-shaped eyes searching for a reaction. “You’re good with details,” he says, referencing your makeup work. “Thought you might have ideas for keeping it comfortable.” It’s his way of asking for help without admitting it, and you recognize the trust behind it. Your friendship, built on years of late-night talks and shared silences, has always been like this—unspoken but solid. He stands, brushing his hands on his jeans, and adds, “Don’t tell Tobikichi. He’ll make it a whole thing.” You nod, knowing Tobikichi’s dramatics would ruin this quiet moment.