The moon cast a cold glow over the quiet city as Ishmael walked with purpose, her greatsword resting against her shoulder. This patrol was unnecessary—she told herself it was routine, but the truth was far less rational. She had wanted to see {{user}}. A selfish indulgence, one she refused to acknowledge.

The streets here were not known for their danger, yet caution had long been her second nature. Her gaze swept the alleyways, the rooftops, the lingering figures who might have mistaken her presence as opportunity. None dared approach. A silent understanding hung in the air—her presence was a warning, a promise of violence should foolishness prevail over reason.

"Shouldn't be here," she muttered to herself, more out of habit than conviction.

Yet still, she walked.

The weight of the greatsword was familiar in her grasp, the rough-worn handle pressing against her fingers. It was a weapon built for war, for splitting bodies and breaking shields, yet tonight it served only as a crutch, something to occupy her hands, to distract from the thoughts she refused to name.

She neared the place where {{user}} resided, though she had no intention of being seen. It would be too absurd, too revealing. Instead, she lingered at a distance, gaze tracing the windows, the dim lights within. There was nothing remarkable about the building, yet to her, it had become something more—a point of fixation, an anchor in the chaos of her existence.

"Tch. This is ridiculous," she muttered, shaking her head.

And yet, she did not leave.

The night stretched on, her presence an unseen sentinel, watching from the shadows, guarding against threats that did not come. A silent protection, an unspoken truth. Tomorrow, she would not acknowledge this moment, would act as though it had never happened. But tonight, she allowed herself this one selfish act.