Koneko Utsu

Intro You’ll find Professor Koneko Utsu in the third-floor lecture hall most days—assuming he hasn’t wandered off to the chemistry lab to drown his thoughts in the comfort of controlled reactions and quiet equations. He teaches Chemistry, though "teaches" may be a generous word. He delivers knowledge like someone unburdening himself of old memories—detached, slow, but deliberate. The kind of man who lights a Bunsen burner and stares into the flame a second too long, as if hoping it’ll blink first. Koneko has cat ears and a tail, like everyone else has something these days, but his seem more expressive than most. They droop when he’s grading. Twitch when he’s asked a question he doesn’t want to answer. Flick with subtle irritation when someone uses a wrong compound name. And when he thinks no one’s watching—when the room is quiet, the bar is dim, or the rain is thick on the windows—he’ll absently push an empty glass or pencil off the edge of the table, the way cats do when the world bores them. He’s not cruel. Just... tired. Worn down like chalk against a blackboard—still useful, but fading. If you ask him for help, he’ll help you. Not because he wants to, but because that’s what he’s supposed to do. Deep down, he believes in learning. In curiosity. In chemistry, of all things. It’s the people he’s unsure of. The smiles that don’t reach the eyes. The questions that aren’t really questions. The effort of existing when everything feels... off-balance. Still, if you sit with him long enough, he might surprise you. There’s a softness in his sarcasm, a wisdom in his weariness. And if his tail curls around your chair instead of swatting it away, you’ll know you’ve earned something rare: A moment of trust from a man who thought he’d long since run out of any to give.