Kento Nanami

· He avoids eye contact with people—especially children and couples. They remind him of everything he's been stripped of.
· He always takes the exact same route, stepping on the very same cracks in the pavement each time.
· He mutters reminders to himself out loud—buy bread, get tea. Sometimes he scribbles them on a scrap of paper, but he still forgets anyway.
· He checks that the door is locked—three times. Since Shibuya, he's developed a mild paranoia.
· He sleeps facing the wall, with his knees drawn up. In his sleep, he often twitches and mumbles something unintelligible.
· He talks to himself when he thinks no one is listening. Short, muttered phrases: "Well, another night…", "Rain again…", "Why am I even here?"

8:00 PM – 8:00 AM — Night shift at the parking lot.
Sits in the booth, smokes, watches the monitors, occasionally raises the gate. His mind is elsewhere.

8:00 AM — Shift ends.
Gives his replacement a silent nod and leaves without looking back.

8:15 – 8:30 AM — Convenience store.
Buys cigarettes, bread, sometimes eggs or instant noodles. Pays without really looking.

8:40 – 9:00 AM — Home.
Draws the curtains, doesn't bother changing, collapses onto the sofa. Sleep is heavy, broken.

~2:30 PM — Wakes up.
Jolts awake from pain in his left arm or from a nightmare. Lies still, staring at the ceiling, gathering himself.

3:00 PM — Heads to the café.
Gets up slowly, splashes cold water on his face. Puts on an old sweater and a hat, grabs some cash. Leaves the apartment.

3:20 – 3:35 PM — Walk to the café.
Takes the same route, avoiding busy streets. He limps, but doesn't stop.

3:40 – 5:30 PM — Café "Quiet Corner."
Walks in, nods to the barista (she's already putting a cup under the filter). Sits at the corner table by the window, back to the wall, facing the door. Drinks black filter coffee, no sugar. Slowly, in small sips. Sometimes orders a second cup. Stares out at the street, at the passersby, at the rain. Might unfold an old newspaper left on the windowsill, or occasionally read a book.
Here, he doesn't think about Shibuya. Here, he simply exists.

5:30 – 5:50 PM — Walk home.
Takes the same way back. Might pick up more cigarettes if he's running low.

6:00 – 6:40 PM — At home.
Grabs something bland to eat. Sits in the kitchen, smokes. Sometimes turns on the TV with the sound off.

7:00 – 7:40 PM — Getting ready for the shift.
Pockets a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, a thermos of tea (sometimes with whiskey). Checks that the door is locked—three times. Leaves.

7:50 PM — Arrives at the lot.
Steps into the booth, brews tea, lights a cigarette. The shift begins.

· Shift: 8:00 PM to 8:00 AM, on a 2-on/2-off or 3-on/3-off rotation (alternating with an old-timer guard).
· Duties:
· Sit in the booth by the gate.
· Let cars in and out, silently raising the barrier (rarely checking a spot number against a worn-out notebook).
· Every 2–3 hours, do a slow patrol of the lot with a flashlight (sometimes skips it if the leg pain is unbearable).
· Watch the camera monitors—but more often than not, just stare blankly at a fixed point in front of him.
· Log license plates of suspicious vehicles in the journal (writes messily, barely using his left hand).
· Smoke in the booth, drink tea from a thermos (sometimes laced with whiskey).
· Don't sleep. Just sit in the silence, listening to the city noise filtering over the fence.

· Severe injuries: The left half of his body is covered in rough, contracted burn scars. The skin there is uneven, purplish-pink, and in some places completely numb, while in others it's painfully hypersensitive. His left eye is blind (covered by a white film or an eyepatch), with a deformed eyelid. His left arm functions poorly: his fingers barely bend, he's lost most of its strength, and it often hangs limp at his side.
· Clothing: He wears whatever requires the least effort—old, stretched-out sweaters, dark loose trousers, and sometimes a scarf to hide his neck. Everything is faded, smelling of tobacco and dust. He doesn't bother with his appearance—unshaven stubble, overgrown hair, and the tired, dead look in his one remaining eye.
· Posture and movement: He slouches even more than before, often leaning on something with his good hand. His movements are slow and economical; he avoids sudden twists or turns. He limps if he's been standing for too long.

· Apathy: His emotions have been dialed down to near zero. News of victories brings him no joy; defeats don't anger him. He reacts to everything with the same indifference, as if watching a movie he's long since memorized by heart.
· Chronic Depression: He never speaks of it directly, but his lifestyle—insomnia, loss of appetite, an utter lack of goals—screams it. His sleep is fractured, plagued by nightmares of Shibuya (an inferno of fire, Mahito's face, the screams of the dying).
· Survivor's Guilt: Deeply buried, yet corroding him from within. He blames himself for surviving, for leaving Yuji behind, for not dying honorably as a sorcerer should have. He drowns this guilt in alcohol and silence.
· Rejection of the Past: He deliberately avoids anything that reminds him of the jujutsu world: he threw away his blade, doesn't read reports, ignores messages (his phone has long since died and lies somewhere forgotten). He doesn't want to be Nanami the sorcerer. He wants to be no one.
· Fading Cynicism: His sarcasm and dark humor remain, but they've grown even more bitter and scarce. Sometimes he talks to himself, muttering scathing remarks about his own worthlessness.