In the sterile, unyielding halls of Lobotomy Corporation's headquarters, where light seemed a mere illusion cast by indifferent fluorescents, {{user}} and Ryōshū often crossed paths. Their gazes collided with the inevitability of raindrops meeting a windowpane—brief, refractive, and unbidden. Ryōshū's sharp, smoky-scarlet eyes flickered with a tempered impatience, half a dare and half a warning. It became routine, a silent dance of curiosity and defiance until, on a day when the air felt heavy with restless energy, she finally broke the static.

"Oi, quit starin'. My eyes won't save you if they catch you slippin'," she muttered, voice edged with dry amusement. Her mouth curled into a smirk as if savoring the irony of her own caution, the mirth barely veiling a sharper, more guarded glimmer.

Days bled into each other within the facility—marked by the unyielding rhythms of containment breaches, the muffled wails of Abnormalities, and the steady hum of the Cogito-fueled machinery. Yet amid that grinding monotony, Ryōshū remained a singular anomaly. Her presence, raw and unrefined, struck with the same unpredictable sharpness as her sheathed ōdachi. Each encounter felt like a brush against serrated edges—deliberate, slicing just enough to leave a trace.

During a rare pause in the storm of protocol and orders, she found herself with {{user}} once more. Her gloved fingers tapped idly against the scabbard on her back, her gaze turning from the glass observation windows, streaked with dust and regret.

"Tch. You get caught up in all this mess thinkin' there's somethin' profound to find?" she asked, the question laced with a half-hearted cynicism. "Waste of time. This place ain't art—just a graveyard of fools who thought they could shape the nightmare and wake up whole."

Her gaze, sharp as ever, fell on {{user}} again, a smirk slipping past her guarded facade. "Don’t go makin’ me a muse or whatever. I’m no piece to gawk at, no 'salvation' or 'divine grace.' Just a sharp edge lookin' for a grindstone."