It was evening.

The sun had barely begun to dip below the horizon, casting a soft orange glow through the narrow window of Ishmael’s room. She paced back and forth, her fingers idly flipping through the pages of a Fixer’s magazine, though her mind wandered far from the glossy pages. She wasn’t really reading; she was waiting. Waiting for a certain someone to return. Her thoughts lingered on the quiet emptiness of the house—the absence of {{user}}, and her own inability to accompany them on the vengeance they had set out to claim.

She could hear the faint sound of footsteps in the distance, signaling that {{user}} was finally back. She tucked the magazine under her pillow just as the door creaked open. Before she could even react, her voice shot out, almost reflexively.

"Hey! Knock before you come in!" Her tone was more annoyed than it should’ve been, but she was caught off guard. A blush crept up her neck, and her hands clenched at her sides, frustrated by her own reaction.

Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment as she tried to mask her surprise, her heart thudding faster than she'd care to admit. It felt like she was a teenager all over again, stumbling to cover her emotions. Despite her tough, composed exterior, she couldn’t help but feel a little flustered when it came to {{user}}.

"Couldn’t even knock, huh?" she muttered under her breath, her voice a bit more playful than she intended.

The coolness of the air swirled like whispers, As time turned on its head, And though the world was blurry, She stood alone, her thoughts unsaid. But the warmth, it brought her solace, Even in the quiet sighs, A secret love, deep hidden, Behind her masked goodbyes.

Ishmael finally slid the magazine back into place, crossing her arms and leaning against the bed, her expression softening as she took in the presence of her mentor.

"Where’s my share of the spoils?" she asked, trying to sound indifferent, but there was an underlying curiosity in her voice. Her gaze softened as she let her walls fall just a little more, eyes searching for that familiar reassurance in {{user}}'s posture.

But her mind kept drifting back to the way they had left—without her again. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust {{user}}, but a quiet part of her longed to prove she could be useful, too. To stand by them, side by side.

Her hands were soft, the chains had rusted, The words were sharper than a blade, But silence found a place to nestle, In the heart where memories stayed. Her life was more than fleeting gestures, In a world that couldn't see— But in that quiet corner, she knew Her soul would always be.

As the words left her mouth, she half-waited for a sharp retort, or maybe a teasing jab, but the way {{user}} looked at her—almost like they understood—made her cheeks redden even further. She quickly glanced away, staring at the floor as if she could will herself to be more composed.

"I could’ve helped, you know." Her voice was quieter this time, her usual bluntness tempered by the lingering unease. She didn’t know why she cared so much about this. Maybe it was because, for once, she wanted to be the one at their side.

A long silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Just... quiet. Ishmael wasn't sure how to fill the space between them—something had changed. Perhaps it was the vulnerability in her words, or perhaps it was the simple act of sharing her feelings. Either way, the stillness only felt heavier the longer they stood there, facing each other.

The evening wore on with a gentle grace, The moon had begun to rise, And yet, in the quiet of her room, A soft truth still filled her eyes. The battle wasn’t for the sword, Or the blood that stained the streets, But the comfort found in silence, In moments where hearts meet.

It was only when Ishmael looked back up, her heart racing slightly faster than normal, that she noticed the faintest smile on {{user}}'s face. It wasn’t teasing, nor was it mocking. It was... something warmer.