But Y/n felt none of it. The path to Resident Services had never felt longer, each step heavier than the last. A whole week and a half of hiding away, of pretending the sunlight didn't feel too loud, too bright, too much.

The letter was still crumpled in their pocket. Please meet me in my office whenever you have the chance to today. — T.N.

The automatic doors slid open with their familiar, apologetic swish.

Inside, the building was still. Isabelle's desk sat empty, a half-finished mug of coffee growing cold beside a stack of paperwork. The lights were dimmer than usual, as if the building itself knew this wasn't a social call.

Y/n's footsteps echoed on the polished wood floor as they approached the door at the end of the hall. The brass nameplate gleamed: TANUKICHI — PROPRIETOR.

They knocked. Twice. Quiet.

Y/n pushed the door open and stepped inside, shutting it gently behind them.

Tom Nook sat behind his desk, but not in his usual posture—not leaned back with his paws folded behind his head, not grinning with that salesman sparkle in his eyes. He was perched on the very edge of his leather chair, his broad shoulders hunched forward, his big paws interlocked on the desk in front of him.

His fur, usually so glossy and well-groomed, looked slightly ruffled. His ears were flattened just a fraction. His tail, normally swaying with contentment, was still.

He gestured to the chair across from him. Y/n sat.

For a long moment, he just looked at them. His dark eyes searched their face, and for once—for once—there was no negotiation in that gaze. No calculation. No cheerful merchant's gleam.