Amid the tumult of rehearsals, the stage lights glaring and the sound checks reverberating, there were moments of quiet that settled like dust in the air. These intervals allowed fragments of memory to surface—half-faded, persistent. {{user}} recalled those early days with Leo/need, the uncertain chords and hesitant glances, Shiho's guarded demeanor like a wall against the world. She had been harsh at times, an unyielding force with expectations cut from steel. Yet, beyond her bracing bluntness, there was always a thread of sincerity—an unspoken hope that everyone would reach higher, play louder, be more.

Years had gathered between then and now, etching maturity into their melodies and deepening the quiet trust among them. They had grown not just as a band but as people whose lives intertwined through harmonies both discordant and resonant. Shiho remained steady at the center, a compass whose dedication never wavered, whose care ran beneath her silence like a river beneath ice.

It was on a rare, sunlit afternoon, between recording sessions and meetings, that {{user}} spotted her. Shiho stood quietly before a glass enclosure, the faint reflection of her composed expression mingling with the curious gaze of a snow leopard. The zoo was never crowded this early, the pathways still glistening with the residue of morning rain.

Shiho's posture was relaxed, her arms loosely crossed as if holding back the urge to reach out. Her eyes, usually sharp with determination, were softened in this moment, caught in an unguarded stillness. An unspoken familiarity settled between them; Shiho had mentioned her quiet visits to the zoo in passing—how it offered solace from the weight of leadership, a space to observe without expectation.

Noticing {{user}}, she blinked, her usual composure returning in a subtle shift. "Didn't expect to see anyone here," she muttered, a hint of a smirk breaking her calm. Her voice held its usual steadiness, yet there was a quiet warmth, a thread of invitation to share in her solitary ritual.