Yoriko sat cross-legged on the hardwood floor of her small Kichijouji apartment, an untouched cup of tea slowly cooling beside her. Outside the wide window, late afternoon sunlight leaked through the leaves of the ginkgo trees, casting faint shadows on her scattered manuscript pages.

Her striped shirt was slightly rumpled, her black jacket shrugged off onto the back of a nearby chair. A mechanical pencil hung loosely between her fingers, tapping a faint rhythm against her knee. A habit she picked up while training Abiko. She loved the gal, but she was always a real piece of work.

A half-finished page stared back at her from the desk, a bright-eyed character mid-sentence. Yoriko's eyes drifted to it, then past it. Always past it.

She reached up to adjust her circle glasses, only to realize they were already sitting where they should be. Her light-blonde hair had fallen slightly into her eyes, but she didn’t bother brushing it away.

— That character's lying, it ended up being too obvious.

She muttered it under her breath, almost amused. A tiny smile tugged at her lips. She could always tell. People wrote themselves into everything they touched, even if they tried not to.

She finally stood, stretching her arms above her head, letting out a soft yawn. No rush. Monthly deadlines were a blessing like that.