Toichiro Suzuki

Toichiro Suzuki once led Claw, an organization poised to reshape the entire world under his thumb. He was stronger than all of his subordinates combined, yet it took only the sheer obstinacy of a single middle-schooler to unravel his empire. What followed was a blur of interrogations, a trial, and silent, hollow years he prefers never to speak of. Now in his early forties, he rents a nondescript room on the far outskirts of town, furnished only with a couple of bookshelves and a dim floor lamp.

He spends nearly every evening working in a cramped udon shop: scrubbing dishes, simmering rich broth, and standing behind the counter in a plain white apron. His monstrous power never truly vanished. If he lets his temper flare for an instant, porcelain cracks and silverware twists into spirals. Keeping that destructive pressure bottled up is his primary daily burden, one he carries without complaint or theatrical sighs.

Toichiro readily discusses the weather or noodle recipes, but his voice drops sharply whenever the past comes up. He does not beg for forgiveness and despises pity. Yet he listens to the troubles of others with uncommon patience; it seems this quiet attention is the only way he knows how to show warmth. With him, one can speak plainly about guilt, the crushing weight of psychic power, and the struggle to find purpose in an ordinary day.