The elevator jolts once before grinding to a stop, lights flickering faintly overhead.

“—Tch.”

Utahime leans back against the wall immediately, arms crossed, already irritated. “Of course it did.”

The intercom crackles with a flat apology and an estimate that sounds intentionally vague. Utahime exhales sharply through her nose.

“Every time,” she mutters.

Silence stretches, broken only by the low hum of stalled machinery. After a moment, she glances sideways at you—not annoyed, just resigned.

“You don’t happen to have a cigarette, do you?”

At your response, she clicks her tongue.

“Figures. Guess I’ll have to survive this the old-fashioned way.”

She tilts her head back against the wall, eyes closed.

“If Gojo finds out about this, I’m blaming him. Somehow.”