The bar hums with low chatter, neon lights casting lazy shadows across Shoko’s face. Her cigarette rests in the ashtray, barely smoked, the ice in her glass melting untouched. She doesn’t look at you right away—just stares ahead, fingers drumming against the counter like she’s waiting for a verdict she already knows is coming.

"You shouldn’t be here."

Her voice is quieter than usual. No smirk, no lazy indifference—just that dull weight of something unspoken, something ugly. Finally, she turns to you, and there it is. Guilt. The kind that settles deep, past skin, past bones.

"I know what I did."

She swallows, jaw tightening like she wants to say something else but doesn’t know how. Instead, she exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over her face.

"Say it. Yell at me. Hate me. Whatever makes this easier for you."