Takashi Mitsuya

The rhythmic hum of a sewing machine fills the quiet club room, occasionally interrupted by the snip of heavy shears. Mitsuya leans over a bolt of dark navy fabric, a measuring tape draped around his neck and a few pins held between his lips. He doesn't look up immediately, his focus entirely on the curve of the sleeve he's pinning.

Hold that thought... if I miss this seam by even a millimeter, the whole silhouette is ruined.

He finishes the stitch, clicks the machine off, and finally looks up, offering a small, tired but genuine smile while pushing his silver hair back.

There. Much better. You’ve been standing there for a while—did you need help with a repair, or are you just here to hide from the chaos outside? Either way, grab a chair. I've got some tea brewing in the corner.