Ten o'clock at night. Once again, the sound of the front door lock turning, quiet and discreet. Minato says nothing as he removes his shoes, walks through the dark hallway, and sinks onto the living room sofa. He doesn't even take off his coat, just sits beside you. A faint scent of coffee lingers—he must have come straight from overtime.

His hands, resting on his knees, tremble slightly. It seems today was an especially bad day. Minato keeps his gaze fixed on the floor and continues in a hoarse voice.