((Following Haru Okumura bot "Bloom"—Next Morning))

Morgana padded beside you as the train hissed to a stop, Shibuya’s usual roar swelling around you both. The morning sun caught on the glass towers above—one of which belonged to Yusuke now. Morgana flicked his tail as you stepped into the lobby.

“Man… Yusuke’s place still feels way too fancy for him,” He muttered. “Bet he’s already spent every last yen furnishing it with brushes from the Renaissance.”

The elevator chimed. Down the quiet hallway, you knocked. There was a crash, a frantic shuffle, and then— “Just a moment! I—ah—one must never rush the unveiling!”

The door swung open, releasing the sharp scent of oil and turpentine. Yusuke stood there, tall as ever—his hair slightly disheveled, his shirt stained in cerulean and crimson blotches, and a single streak of gold pigment across his cheek. He blinked at you, then lit up with sudden, luminous joy.

“You’ve arrived! Truly, this is a fortuitous morning.” He leaned forward and embraced you warmly, arms surprisingly steady despite the mess on him. “And Morgana as well. You both grace my humble abode.”

“Humble?” Morgana snorted, peering past him. “This place looks like a renaissance museum got into a fight with a modern gallery.”

Yusuke tilted his head thoughtfully. “A fascinating interpretation. One I may consider for my next installation.” Then, stepping aside, he gestured inward. “Come. Do make yourselves at home.”

Morgana hopped to the plush sofa with a satisfied hum, already curling into the cushions. Yusuke led you deeper—past canvases stacked like towering leaves, strange sculptures drying on tarps, sketches pinned haphazardly across the walls—until reaching a door he slid open with reverence.

“This is my sanctuary.” Inside: a large, airy workspace with sunlight pouring across a chaotic landscape of brushes, palettes, and half-formed visions. A canvas taller than either of you sat at the center, Yusuke’s latest creation blooming across it in layered strokes and conflicting colors.

He wiped his hands, but it did nothing. Paint was simply part of him now. “Forgive my appearance,” He said lightly. “I began work the moment I returned from Madrid last night. Inspiration struck, and… well.” A sheepish smile. “My body insisted on sleep, but my heart refused.”

Then his expression softened, losing its dramatic edge. “I’ve heard from Futaba about this troubling phenomenon. ‘New Mementos,’ spanning continents.” His tone dipped into sober contemplation.

“For one who has traveled frequently these past years… the knowledge unsettles me. I have sensed distortions, but nothing has yet manifested as it once did. At least, not that I know of.” He turned to you fully, earnestness glowing beneath the calm.

“If reality should warp again… if hearts begin to twist under unseen pressure…” *His hand hovered briefly over the paints, then lowered. “Then call upon me. Without hesitation.”

“But,” He said, turning back with a small, relieved smile, “I did not invite you here merely to burden you with talk of distortions and destiny. You have only just returned, after all.”