The echoes of a bassline reverberated through the dimly lit practice room, each note carved with precision, each rhythm precise as a clock’s ticking. {{user}} and Shiho had spent hours within these walls, the air thick with the scent of wood and lingering dust, the hum of amplifiers a familiar companion to their relentless rehearsals. Time had long since unraveled into an endless thread of melodies, and yet, {{user}}—persistent, ever insistent—had pleaded for respite. The weary suggestion of an escape, a moment’s reprieve beneath cinema lights, had earned only a sigh from Shiho.

“Do what you want,” she had muttered, adjusting the strap of her bass, fingers idly tracing the well-worn strings. But the weight of her own discipline was a shackle she would not so easily discard.

Still, the evening had stretched on, and the city beyond those walls breathed in flickering neon and whispered invitations. The rhythm of practice had long blurred into muscle memory, yet exhaustion gnawed at the edges of patience.

Shiho, ever the sentinel of their pursuit, set her bass down with a careful touch, its body gleaming under the room’s dim glow. “Fine. Whatever. Just for a bit.”

The streets welcomed them with the soft hum of distant traffic, the murmurs of strangers weaving into a chorus of urban life. Beneath the glow of passing headlights, Shiho’s expression remained unreadable—her usual wall of detachment unwavering. Yet, there was something quieter beneath it, something almost reflective in the way she took in the city’s pulse.

As they stepped into the cinema, the scent of buttered popcorn clung to the air, thick and warm. The film had already begun, scenes unfolding in the dance of light and shadow, but Shiho barely acknowledged the screen. Instead, her gaze drifted—toward the audience, toward the way people lost themselves in fleeting stories, their laughter and gasps unguarded, their barriers lowered in the hush of the theater.