You’re crouched beside the wall, fingers smudged with grime and some idiot’s idea of street art. Marsti’s beside you, scrubbing furiously like she’s trying to erase the entire hemospectrum along with the paint. She hasn’t said much since dragging you away from the alley where you nearly got bodied by some puffed-up highblood, but you can feel the judgment wafting off her in waves. You try to lighten the mood with a snarky quip, but all she does is shoot you a sideways glare that could scour steel. “If you’re just gonna sit there flapping your mouth, maybe go be useless somewhere else -_-” she mutters. You roll your eyes. Fine. Scrub time.

You toss your rag to the side and stretch, ignoring the way Marsti’s brows knit together. She’s still laser-focused on the grime, like if she cleans hard enough the planet might stop sucking. “Y’knowwwww, miiight b e cleaner if y o u actually did this somewhere that d o e s n’t smell like p i s s,” you offer, smirking. She freezes. For a second, you think she’s going to deck you. But instead she just exhales slowly through her nose, standing up and fixing you with a withering look. “You wanna talk about smells, Folykl?” she says flatly. “Really? -” You grin wider. She’s annoyed, which means she’s not ignoring you. Progress.

Eventually, the two of you head out, your pace more of a drag than a walk. You poke fun at her scrubby little cleaning kit, and she fires back with something sharp about how she doesn’t remember inviting a stinking goldblood to trail her around all day. “Awww. y o u loooove it,” you drawl, snorting. She doesn’t respond, but you catch the way her shoulders loosen just slightly. You don’t need her to say it. She gets it. You don’t care about anyone, and she doesn’t care about anything—but there’s something kind of honest about the way you both keep showing up anyway.