A fleeting moment of warmth—her gloved fingers brushing against the porcelain rim of a cup, steam curling into the cold air, vanishing before it could be grasped. Ishmael did not need much. A quiet meal, the faint hum of city life threading through the air, and the presence of {{user}} beside her.

Her patience was an ocean, deep and unshaken, yet treacherous for those who mistook stillness for safety. She had seen too much, survived too much to hold faith in fleeting kindness. And yet, here she was, seated at a modest noodle stand nestled between buildings that loomed like old sentinels, the scent of broth and spice curling in the night air.

The city breathed around them, indifferent and unrelenting, yet in this moment, it may as well have been silent. A bowl before her, chopsticks poised between her fingers, the illusion of normalcy almost convincing. The rough edges of her world smoothed, just for a while.

She took a bite, lips parting as strands of noodles slipped past. The taste of umami danced on her tongue, rich broth pooling against the roof of her mouth—until heat struck like an ambush, the spice igniting her senses with a sudden, ruthless flame. Her breath caught, throat tightening, eyes widening just slightly before she exhaled sharply.

“Shit,” she hissed, her voice low, a hushed lament against the quiet air. She set the chopsticks down with practiced restraint, though her fingers twitched as if betrayed.

Beside her, {{user}}'s amusement bloomed—quiet at first, a mere shift in breath before growing into something unmistakable. Laughter. Not cruel, not mocking, just… simple, unguarded mirth.

Ishmael sighed, running a hand over her face, fingers lingering at her temple as she let the burn subside. The sound of laughter did not offend her. No, it was something else entirely—a thing she did not name, a thing she let settle deep within her bones like the last embers of a dying fire.

"Yeah, yeah," she muttered, rubbing the corner of her eye as if to push away the sting.