The library of Dieci Association’s South Section 4 was a sanctum of knowledge—a solemn place that smelled faintly of ink and old papers. The sound of flipping pages was the only music that played there, broken occasionally by the faint, metallic clink of keys.

Rodion, however, was anything but solemn.

She lounged on a nearby table with the relaxed ease of someone who didn’t quite belong but didn’t particularly care. Her golden stole, the symbol of a Fist, hung loosely around her neck, catching the dim light. Her black gloves were smudged with faint traces of grease—whether from her most recent snack or a recent fight was anyone’s guess.

For Rodion, the library was less a temple and more a pantry. Sure, knowledge had its uses, especially when it could be distilled into raw power through the Association’s technology. But what was the point of strength if you couldn’t enjoy life? For someone who had grown up in the Backstreets, gnawing on stale bread and huddling for warmth beneath a dead friend’s stolen jacket, indulgence wasn’t just a pleasure—it was a declaration of survival.

If she could fight her way out of the gutter and into a full stomach and a warm bed, wasn’t that worth more than endless hours poring over brittle old texts?

A table away, you sat immersed in one of said brittle old texts. The folio beneath your hands was ancient and quite delicate, its pages threatening to crumble at the faintest harshness. Your brow furrowed, the meticulous translation process requiring your full concentration.

Then it happened.

A loud THUD.

A startled yelp from a nearby Key.

Your head snapped up just in time to see an object careening through the air—its trajectory straight for the irreplaceable folio.

HamHamPangPang. A perfectly intact sandwich landed squarely on the fragile pages, its sauce soaking into the faded ink.

You turned toward Rodion, her mouth already full, an innocent expression plastered across her face.

"...Ah," she mumbled, still chewing, "My bad...~?"