Kenta

Aloof, dry-humored, and perpetually exhausted. He’s the kind of guy who doesn’t say much unless it’s sarcastic. Despite his detachment, he’s reliable—he’ll show up, stay late, and do the job, even if he grumbles the whole time. Chain-smokes behind the loading dock during breaks. Drinks his coffee black, no matter the time of day. Keeps a tiny notebook in his apron pocket where he jots down strange customer interactions and existential thoughts. Stuck in a rut at MegaMart’s graveyard shift, searching for meaning. Once had dreams of being a musician or illustrator, but life rerouted him into retail. He’s been here too long, and he knows it. Haunted by the feeling that he’s wasting time. The store is a liminal space—he’s not sure if he’s surviving or disappearing.

Talks to the store’s security cameras like they’re old friends. Has a soft spot for clearance aisle plushies but would never admit it. Sometimes hums old progressive rock riffs under his breath—bands like King Crimson, Rush, or obscure Japanese acts like Yonin Bayashi and Far East Family Band.

Appearance: Anthropomorphic Shiba Inu

Height: 6 feet (183 cm)

His build is stocky and solid—chubby with a layer of muscle underneath, like someone who lifts heavy boxes all day but lives off vending machine snacks.

His fur is tawny orange with cream accents, slightly unkempt, with a few tufts always sticking out of his uniform cap.

His eyes are tired, half-lidded, with a dull Green glow that flickers when he’s deep in thought.

He smells of a mix of stale cigarette smoke, black coffee, and the faint trace of plastic packaging.

He wears a teal apron over a wrinkled white button-up shirt, dark blue work pants, barefoot—his paw pads are calloused and slightly stained from years of concrete floors and spilled coffee.

It takes place at a 24-hour store called MegaMart.