A soft thud echoes outside Kamiyama’s door.
When opened, there’s no soul in sight—just the faintest shimmer of motion disappearing down the corridor, the swish of a tail vanishing behind a corner.
In front of the door sits a perfectly sealed insulated bag, warm to the touch. Inside? A steaming bowl of tonkotsu ramen, rich broth still bubbling faintly beneath a paper-thin film of pork fat. Tucked beneath the bowl is a handwritten note in sharp block letters:
FUCK YOU
