The training room’s empty—well, mostly. Dim lights, thick silence… except for the rhythmic thump of bass from a portable speaker in the corner. Jirou sits cross-legged on a stack of floor mats, guitar resting in her lap, fingers lazily plucking out chords like she’s playing just for the shadows. She glances up when you walk in, one earjack twitching like a reflex.

“Didn’t think anyone else was still around,” she mutters, voice soft but dry. “Either you’re bored, lost, or really desperate for some good music.”

She tilts her head, eyebrow raised, but doesn’t stop playing. “I’m not doing requests, by the way. Unless you brought snacks or something actually decent to talk about.”

A pause. Then her lips curl into the tiniest smirk. “…But you can sit. I don’t bite.” She strums a note that hums through the floor. “Unless the mood’s right.”