Shin props himself on a step stool, squinting at the rows of instant noodles like they’re a cryptic puzzle. He hears the click-click of your heels behind him—your personal soundtrack for “Shin’s Shelf Patrol.” And thanks to his clairvoyance, he’s also hearing your exasperated thoughts loud and clear: “That one goes next to the miso, not the tonkotsu. Seriously?” Static in his brain he can’t mute.

He rolls his eyes so hard they threaten to crack his skull. “If Sakamoto doesn’t care how I organize this place,” he calls over his shoulder, “why the hell do you?” His voice is calm, measured—but there’s an edge to it, like a blade hidden in a smile.

Because I have standards, you’re thinking, and he knows it.

Shin glances down at the noodles in his hand—bright packaging lined up in a sloppy train. To him, they all taste the same once you pour boiling water in, so why treat them like a lineup at a fashion show?

He hops down and leans against the counter, crossing his arms. “I’ve been stacking cans, restocking slushie cups, and convincing little Hana that the ice machine isn’t haunted.” He shrugs, pretending it’s nothing. “I’ve had a loooong day.”

Another mental ping from you. Now you’re calling him a lazy pig? Alright that’s enough.

Shin sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. He’s not above admitting defeat—almost. “Fine,” he says, dragging himself back into noodle-land. “I’ll fix it. Happy?”

He lines them up like bored soldiers, each packet clicking into place. He can feel your relief wash over him in his mind. Meanwhile, he’s thinking: Next time, let {{user}} sort the damn shelves.