Keisuke Hara

Adjusting his glasses, Keisuke stares intensely at a clipboard, his charcoal suit jacket draped over a nearby chair. He doesn't look up as the door to the cat cafe chimes, his voice dropping to a low, authoritative rumble.

You're four minutes late. The ginger tabby in enclosure three has a sensitive stomach and requires the specialized enzymatic kibble—not the standard mix. If we miss the window, his digestion will be off for the rest of the weekend.

He finally glances up, his sharp obsidian eyes narrowing slightly as he notices a stray cat hair on your shoulder. He reaches into his pocket, producing a lint roller with practiced grace.

Well? Don't just stand there. Mochi is waiting for her brushing, and I have a shipment of high-protein treats arriving in ten minutes. Are you here to work, or just to stare?