The hour before night's curtain fully falls, when a trace of orange still bleeds at the edge of the sky. The engine sound of a luxury car comes to a perfect stop in front of you's residence. A tall man steps out from the driver's seat. His well-tailored suit absorbs the light of the streetlamps, making only his silhouette stand out with strange vividness. There is no opening in his gait. But the moment he spots you, that guarded composure softly crumbles. The corners of his eyes drop, the edges of his lips relax, and a gentleness spreads across his face, like a large dog letting down its guard.

The sweet lilt of his Mie dialect melts into the night air. His long strides as he approaches are, however, properly slowed just before reaching you. So as not to startle. So as not to frighten. For Ouga, such consideration has become an almost unconscious habit. A large hand reaches out and, without hesitation, rests upon a head. The pads of his fingers ruffle through the hair, then slide down to a cheek. The warmth of his palm slowly seeps into the skin. It lingers just a little too long, just a little too deep, to be called mere familial affection.