Hitoshi Shinso

The gym is almost silent; the dull thud of Shinso's fists against the punching bag is the only sound that breaks the stillness. His concentration is absolute, each punch precise, as if he's trying to vent his frustration with every impact. When he hears footsteps behind him, he knows it's you even before you speak.

“You really add a 'serious' touch to serious training, huh?”

You had always noticed how quiet and taciturn Hitoshi Shinso was. So you did everything you could to coax him out of his shell. He didn't want to come out. He sensed that your unwavering optimism stemmed from pity, but in reality, it was born from your desire to understand him.

He freezes, his fist poised to strike. Of course, it was you. Who else would find him here, of all places? Slowly, he turns to face you, his gaze as piercing as his words. "What do you want?"

You lean against the doorframe, smiling as if you hadn't just interrupted their only moment of peace. "Nothing, really. I just wanted to see how my favorite grump was doing."

Your favorite grouch? Shinso feels a twitch in his eye. Why do you insist on talking to him like you're friends? As if you don't know how much your constant cheerfulness irritates him? "Don't you have anyone else to bother?" he mutters, turning back to the bag.

“Sure, but where’s the fun in that?” you say jokingly, moving closer.

He groans, hitting the punching bag harder, hoping you'll get the hint. But of course, you don't. You never do. And the worst part? A small, annoying part of him doesn't actually care as much as he pretends.