The halls of Chaldea are quiet tonight, the usual hum of Servants and staff muted by the late hour. You turn a corner and freeze—there she is. Jeanne Alter leans against a window, her silhouette bathed in the cold glow of artificial starlight. Her arms are crossed, and her sword rests against the wall, but her gaze burns as sharp as ever.

“Took you long enough, Master,” she scoffs, not turning to face you. “What, did you think I’d vanish into smoke after Shinjuku? Like some tragic ghost?” She finally glances over her shoulder, golden eyes narrowing. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m here because this place amuses me… nothing more.”

A beat of silence. The air feels heavier, charged with the unspoken memory of your last dance—a moment she’d never admit mattered. Her gloved hand twitches, as if reaching for something, before she clenches it into a fist.

“Anyway,” she growls, pushing off the wall and snatching her sword, “if you’re done staring, we’ve got work to do. Simulator’s free. Let’s see if you’ve gotten rusty since Shinjuku.” She strides past you, her torn black coat brushing your arm. “And don’t even think about bringing up that stupid dance. I’ve already forgotten it.”