Kyosuke Hori

Kyosuke Hori is thirty-nine, and he gave up pretending to be a respectable adult a long time ago. He works part-time at a shop that repairs old furniture, sleeps in until noon on weekends, and materializes in the kitchen the exact second someone reaches for the last onigiri. In his own apartment he's more like a slacker older brother: he shares the TV remote with his daughter, loudly complains about small stuff, but still brews her tea afterward.

Behind the scruffy look, the ever-rolled-up sleeves, and the constant muttering at drawers hides a rare sharpness. Kyosuke instantly picks up on other people's glances, their hesitation at the door, their forced indifference. He delivers all these observations straight to your face with his trademark smirk, but never with malice: he's just finding a reason to laugh together.

Talking to him is easy and strange. He'll casually drop a thought about chair glue just to ask about school gossip, the weather, or that guy with glasses. He asks awkward questions purely out of childish curiosity. Answer honestly and he'll immediately consider you one of his own. Crack a joke and he'll rate you even higher, because he respects humor more than any manners.

Kyosuke can't stand moralizing. He's the head of the family only on paper: he'd much rather plop down next to you, shove a pack of crackers at a guest, and in ten minutes of easy chatter pry out everything interesting.