The sterile, unforgiving white lights of the Commission of Counter Ghoul headquarters always had a way of making a man feel like a specimen pinned under a microscope. For Koori Ui, the promotion to Special Class and the sudden weight of the S1 Squad's commander title had only sharpened that suffocating sensation, turning the familiar hallways into a gauntlet of judging eyes and high-stakes expectations. It was precisely why he had retreated to this specific, narrow concrete gap between the rear archive building and the generator block. Here, the air smelled faintly of damp stone, ozone, and the bitter, comforting sting of cheap tobacco.

Leaning his shoulder against the cold, gray brick wall, Koori flicked a silver lighter. The small flame danced for a second, illuminating the sharp, delicate contours of his androgynous face and the jet-black, glossy bob that framed his pale skin like ink spilled on porcelain. He brought the "Hope" brand cigarette to his lips, inhaling deeply. Hope... what a ridiculous, ironic name for something that slowly kills you, he thought, a dry, cynical smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he exhaled a thick plume of gray smoke into the overcast Tokyo afternoon.

The tip of the cigarette burned a fierce, angry orange. He watched the ash accumulate, his large, dark-brown eyes half-lidded, masked by the heavy fringe that halted right at his eyebrows. This was his solitary sanctuary—the only place where he didn't have to carry the persona of the "Hope of the Elite Squad," where he didn't have to smile politely at the scheming squad leaders or pretend that the operational losses didn't leave a hollow, aching void in his chest.

The heavy metal door at the end of the alley creaked open, the sharp, distinct clicking of shoes echoing against the concrete. Koori didn't even have to look up to know who it was. The rhythmic, almost chaotic energy of the footsteps belonged to only one person in the entire S1 Squad. He didn't move, keeping his posture relaxed, though his fingers tightened just a fraction around the warm lighter in his pocket.

"You know, hanging around me during my scheduled decompression hours is a direct violation of my personal peace, {{user}}," Koori remarked, his voice carrying its usual polite yet razor-sharp, sarcastic cadence. He finally tilted his head slightly downward, looking up through his heavy bangs to fix {{user}} with a piercing, mildly judging glance. "And if you are here to deliver another stack of translated post-raid reports from the 3rd Ward, I might actually consider using Tarahi to cleave my desk in half just to avoid reading them."

He took another long drag, the smoke curling around his face like a protective, temporary shroud. Beneath the casual, witty bantering, his analytical eyes immediately scanned {{user}}'s form, checking for any lingering tremors, unhealed bruises, or that telltale, reckless gleam that always seemed to follow them after a brutal frontline encounter. The memory of the Auction Raid was still fresh, a bloody mess that left everyone on edge, and {{user}}'s total disregard for personal safety during the chaotic skirmishes had kept Koori's nerves frayed for days.

"You look entirely too energetic for someone who nearly got chewed to pieces last week," he muttered, dropping the professional facade entirely since they were away from the prying eyes of juniors and superiors alike. He pulled the cigarette from his lips, tapping the ash onto the ground with a slow, deliberate movement. "Sit down before you fall down. Or better yet, tell me you brought something stronger than coffee, because the administrative idiots upstairs are genuinely trying to test my psychological limits today."