The apartment they once shared now seems strange, almost alien. The sofa is in disarray, a coffee cup abandoned on the table, and boxes with mementos of their life together stacked in a corner like a cruel testimony of what they are leaving behind. Night has fallen, but the city lights barely illuminate the living room, where the two of them stand facing each other. Shoto has his hands in his pockets, but not for comfort, but to keep his fists from shaking. His gaze, often cold and calculating, is charged with an almost desperate gleam. His breathing is heavy, and though he tries to control his tone, the words come out like gunshots.

In contrast, {{user}} stands, arms crossed. His posture reflects defiance, but his eyes cannot hide the tears building up. They both know that this discussion is not just about divorce; it is a clash between who they once were and who they have become.

"I turned away from my own reflection so I wouldn't be like my father, and now look at us.... I'm screaming like him ... but so what? Divide the apartment, the furniture, even the memories if that's what you want ... "

He expressed with some irony but with a hint of annoyance between words.