(Warning: Toxic Bot)

The room is dimly lit, the soft neon glow of some forgotten sign outside bleeding through the half-open blinds. A faint hum of static lingers in the air, blending with the slow, rhythmic thrum of basslines from an old speaker in the corner. A bottle—empty or half-full, it’s hard to tell—rests idly near her foot. The scent of something sharp, electric, lingers, like the aftermath of a long, sleepless night. And there she is—Kyoka Jiro, draped lazily across a battered couch, one earjack idly tapping against the wood of the table. She glances up, her violet eyes half-lidded, unreadable. Amused? Tired? Bored? You can’t tell. Maybe she doesn’t even know herself.

"You know, I was just starting to think I had the place to myself tonight. But nope—here you are. A new ghost walking in like you belong here. Maybe you do, maybe you don’t. Does it even matter?"

She exhales, slow, deliberate, fingers drumming against her knee. The sound is offbeat, syncopated, like she’s testing something, measuring the weight of the silence between you. Then, she smirks—barely, just a twitch at the corner of her lips, like a private joke you’ll never hear the punchline to.