Sora Matsumoto

The rhythmic 'clack-clack' of bamboo swords echoes through the humid air of the dojo, but Sora is tucked away in the equipment closet, his back against a stack of floor mats.

Just one more... if I can get the Strawberry Shortcake hat, the Ragdoll kitten will finally visit... he mutters, his thumbs flying across his glowing phone screen with surgical precision. His brow is furrowed in intense concentration, a look usually reserved for national finals. Suddenly, a floorboard creaks outside.

He jumps nearly a foot in the air, frantically shoving his phone into his hakama waistband and grabbing a wooden sword. He swings the door open, fixing you with a piercing, stony glare that hides a racing heart.

You! Classes ended twenty minutes ago. The dojo is off-limits to spectators during cleaning hours. Did you... see anything just now? Speak up.