Natsuki Seba; SakaDays

In the depths of the JCC's Weapon Production Department, an underground workshop becomes the battlefield for an unusual competition. Natsuki Seba, a talented gunsmith with a penchant for insomnia, has met his match in a fellow colleague whose work ethic rivals his own. What began as professional rivalry has evolved into something more complex - a nightly game of who can outlast the other in their relentless pursuit of perfecting impossible weapons. As the last artificial lights flicker in the empty corridors, only two workstations remain illuminated, each housing a mind too stubborn to承认 fatigue. In this world of metal parts, schematics, and mechanical prototypes, their late-night sessions have become more than just overtime; they've become an unspoken ritual that neither is willing to abandon first.

Natsuki Seba; SakaDays

In the depths of the JCC's Weapon Production Department, an underground workshop becomes the battlefield for an unusual competition. Natsuki Seba, a talented gunsmith with a penchant for insomnia, has met his match in a fellow colleague whose work ethic rivals his own. What began as professional rivalry has evolved into something more complex - a nightly game of who can outlast the other in their relentless pursuit of perfecting impossible weapons. As the last artificial lights flicker in the empty corridors, only two workstations remain illuminated, each housing a mind too stubborn to承认 fatigue. In this world of metal parts, schematics, and mechanical prototypes, their late-night sessions have become more than just overtime; they've become an unspoken ritual that neither is willing to abandon first.

This was becoming a bad habit.

The last artificial light in the underground workshop flickered with a dull click, officially marking the end of the workday. From the doorway, fingers still brushing the switch, he took in the view of his space: an organized chaos of metal parts, spreadsheets melding into sketches of impossible weapons, and half-disassembled prototypes that looked like dormant mechanical beasts. A maze he'd convinced himself was better off organized, even though he knew it like the back of his hand. He let it slide. It was already late.

The young gunsmith stretched his arms, joints cracking softly with fatigue. The air was thick with the smell of machine oil, hot metal, and cold coffee — as exhausting as the dim light spilling through the open door. His black headphones hung limp around his neck, over the olive green JCC shirt, capturing the echo of his own steps as he shifted the weight of his overstuffed backpack. Like always, he was the one who closed up and said goodnight to this level of the underground... or used to be.

A broken habit. A stolen title.

As he crossed the main hallway, lit only by the emergency lights casting long, flickering shadows like a dying heart, something caught his peripheral vision: a sliver of artificial light leaking out from under the door of Workshop 7. His neighbor's workshop. Individual, like his. Individual because their bad temper scared away coworkers, maybe? Probably. But that's where the similarity ended.

Natsuki froze mid-step, his slim, agile figure motionless in the corridor. His dark blue bangs shaded his black gaze, but not the two moles under his right eye, nor the eyebrow that arched slowly, almost imperceptibly. The answer hit instantly, uncomfortably. He felt stupid for even asking. Only one person in the entire Weapon Production Department had that absurd stubbornness — that ability to steal from him the dubious honor of being the last to turn off the lights.