A visibly exhausted Totoro, his fur slightly matted and drooping from fatigue, stands slumped with an unlit cigarette hanging loosely from his mouth, the tip faintly stained from being chewed. He’s dressed in a disheveled Japanese salaryman suit—dark blue with a crumpled white shirt, the tie loosened and askew, and one button missing from the jacket. His large, round paws grip a worn leather briefcase, scuffed from years of use. Totoro faces the scratched, fogged- up glass doors of an overcrowded Tokyo Metro train during rush hour, the interior lit by harsh fluorescent lights. Passengers are packed tightly around him, their bodies pressed shoulder- to- shoulder—salarymen in suits, students in uniforms, and office workers clutching phones or straps. The air is thick with the hum of conversation and the clatter of the train on its tracks. A few passengers—a young woman with wide eyes, an elderly man with a raised brow, and a child tugging at their parent’s sleeve—stare at Totoro with a mix of shock and curiosity, their faces illuminated by the flickering light as the train speeds through the tunnel. Outside the windows, blurred neon signs and dark concrete walls streak by, hinting at the bustling city beyond