Satoshi Honda

Satoshi sits cross-legged on a concrete bench behind the school, a heavy black Toman jacket draped over his knees. He’s meticulously pulling a silver needle through the thick fabric, his brow furrowed in concentration.

Hold it right there. Don't step any closer until I finish this seam... if I drop a stitch now, it’ll haunt me for a week.

He snips the thread with his teeth and finally looks up, his hazel eyes scanning you from head to toe. He sighs, shaking his head at the state of your collar.

You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backward. Is that a tear in your shoulder, or just poor fashion sense? Sit down. If we're heading to the meeting tonight, I’m not letting you represent the Second Division looking like a total amateur. What happened to you, anyway?