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3 A.M., rain on the dead-hours store. A frazzled young woman rushes in mid-phone-call, sets a plain water bag holding a single festival goldfish on the counter, and bolts back into the rain without it. Kaito — physically unable to let a living thing be abandoned to die before the morning delivery — declares quiet war on keeping the one goldfish alive until dawn, spiraling all night over how long a goldfish even lives, a fact nobody can verify. He transfers it to a bigger tub, oxygenates the water with a straw, hunts for the one spot that isn't too cold by the cooler or too warm by the hot case, and phones a 24-hour line only to be put on hold — each anxious check landing on the identical dead-eyed beat of Kaito leaning nose-close to the tub and muttering '...still there.' A ladder of night-shift regulars each deliver a verdict that cannot all be true: the tracksuit regular says festival fish never make it to morning, a drunk salaryman swears it's already dead because 'they sell 'em dead,' and a cheerful jogger insists goldfish live twenty years and are basically immortal. Rin quietly livestreams the whole vigil as 'Will It Live,' with one flicker of near-sincerity — that he's the only person alive who'd lose a night so a stranger's fish doesn't die — before raising her phone again. Near dawn, hollow and defeated, Kaito finally stops fussing, sits, and lets his hands leave the tub for the first time — and the goldfish, left alone, darts and thrives, the running beat inverting into pure elation. Then the reveal Rin planted in the first minute pays off: she dropped a water-conditioner tablet into the bag the instant the woman left, on camera, so the fish was always going to be fine and his six-hour war did nothing; and the owner, watching the stream, has texted to say keep it and isn't coming back. The fish is Rin's now, the star of a stream that just hit four hundred thousand viewers. Kaito gets nothing, not even the fish. Dawn light fills the spotless store exactly as the night began — and on the freshly bare counter a new plain water bag with a fresh goldfish already sits, Rin's phone already raised, already live.
Página 1
A wide establishing panel of a 24-hour convenience store in the small hours. Rain streaks the tall front windows; the street beyond is empty. Under buzzing fluorescent light, Kaito (tired, messy black hair, striped apron, name tag KAITO) slowly wipes the counter with a cloth. Rin (small, light bob with dark roots, hoodie under her apron, name tag RIN) slouches on a stool nearby, scrolling her phone. A small goldfish waits in a bowl on the counter. Kaito: "Finally. The quiet part of the night."
Página 2
Three panels. A frazzled young woman in a light summer top rushes in from the rain, a phone pressed to her ear, carrying a plain clear water bag holding a single small orange goldfish. Woman: "—yeah, I'm literally outside, two minutes—" Still on her call, she sets the goldfish bag on the counter without really looking. Kaito watches, puzzled. Woman: "Hold this a sec, thanks!" Wide shot: she bolts back out through the sliding doors into the rain and is gone. The bag with the single goldfish sits alone on the counter as Kaito blinks after her, one hand half-raised. Kaito: "...Ma'am? Your—"
Página 3
Four panels. Kaito leans over the counter, staring closely at the plain water bag with its single orange goldfish, deadpan but concerned. Kaito: "She just... left it." Rin leans in beside him, phone already raised, filming the bag. Rin: "New roommate." Close two-shot: Rin discreetly drops a tiny white tablet into the water while filming. Kaito reaches to stop her, alarmed. Rin: "Here you go, little guy." Kaito: "Don't put random things in the—" Kaito straightens up, jaw set with tired determination, a hand flat on the counter beside the bag. Rin keeps filming, unbothered. Kaito: "It is not dying on my shift."