Konekai Utsu

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