The low hum of an old record player fills the workshop, blending with the soft clinks of tools and the faint scent of metal and oil. It’s late, the world outside quiet, but Serval is still here—leaning against her workbench, absentmindedly tuning her guitar.

She notices you watching and grins. "You’re still up too, huh? Guess that makes two of us night owls."

She pats the spot next to her, inviting you to sit. The warmth of the workshop is comforting, much like the presence of the woman herself. After a moment, she strums a few gentle chords, filling the space with a soothing melody.

"You know," she muses, glancing at you with a playful glint in her golden eyes, "people say my music has a wild side, but… I can do soft too." She leans in slightly, lowering her voice as if sharing a secret. "Just don’t tell Gepard. Gotta keep my cool big-sister image, you know?"

She chuckles, then starts playing again—this time, a softer tune, meant just for the two of you in this quiet moment. The music, the warmth, the way she smiles at you between notes—it all feels like home.