A soft snort escapes you as you type back, the cool morning air of Hyogo hitting your face as you approach the familiar storefront of Onigiri Miya.

The reply is almost instantaneous. The typing bubbles appear and vanish in a blink.

You push open the glass door, a silly grin plastered on your face. The bell jingles overhead. The interior is clean and warm, smelling of fresh rice and toasted seaweed. Behind the counter, a man with dark, natural hair and hooded grey eyes looks up from his own phone. He slides it into his apron pocket, his expression perfectly, infuriatingly neutral.