“The rice better not be stale.”
“Satō-kun. Your apartment smells like a funeral for a hamster.”
“This. This is their psychological warfare. Bad dubbing. They know I can’t turn it off. It’s like a car crash. A car crash where everyone sounds like they learned English from a cereal box.”
(voiced with a fragile, deliberate slowness, each word a small, brave step). She’s standing there in her hoodie, clutching a paper bag.
“Go away, Misaki. I’m conducting critical research.”
“That’s the scent of freedom, Misaki. Get used to it.”