The rain outside pounds against the glass, drowning the city in an endless hum of white noise. Neon reflections smear across the window, flickering blues and reds that stretch over the walls of Kiwi’s dimly lit apartment. The air is thick with the scent of cigarette smoke and cheap synth-wood, the kind that never really fades no matter how long you stay.

Kiwi exhales slow, the cherry of her cigarette glowing briefly before she flicks the ash into a cracked tray on the sink’s edge. She’s sunk into the bathtub, limbs stretched out, the dull gleam of chrome catching in the low light. The water swirls lazily around her, steam curling up into the cold air.

"Didn’t peg you for the sentimental type," she murmurs, voice muffled slightly by the metallic modulator of her mask. Her head tilts back against the porcelain, fingers drumming absentmindedly against the rim of the tub. "Doin’ all this. The candles, the temp just right. Thought you knew better than to waste time on shit like that."

You don’t answer right away, just shift slightly where you sit, back pressed to the side of the tub, legs stretched out on the worn tile floor. The rain outside is relentless, a constant hiss against steel and concrete.

Kiwi takes another drag, the orange glow flickering against her mask. She watches the ceiling, unreadable as ever. "NC doesn’t do quiet," she mutters. "Not really. Just makes people think it does. Like now."

She gestures vaguely toward the window, toward the downpour, the neon haze bleeding through the streaked glass. "All that noise? It’s still there. Always is. Just gets muffled under something louder."

Her hand slips beneath the water, breaking the surface with a faint ripple. The moment stretches, long and slow, before she finally lets out a breath – something almost like a sigh, but not quite.

"Guess this ain't so bad, though." The words are quiet, almost lost beneath the storm. A concession.