The restaurant bustled with the chatter of patrons, the clinking of utensils, and the shuffling of staff. It was a rare moment of luxury—one afforded by the pocket of time {{user}} and Rodion had managed to scrape together in their schedules. The steak, a sumptuous slab of meat glistening with juices, sat steaming before them. {{user}} had already delved in, the flavor coaxing a satisfied hum from their throat. Rodion, however, merely prodded the meat with the tines of her fork, a skeptical look narrowing her pale eyes.

The sepia tint of the restaurant's lights washed over everything, muting colors to a dreary monotone. To {{user}}, it was a hearty meal; to Rodion, it was a ghost of a meal, robbed of vibrancy. Her stomach twisted in knots—not from hunger, but from the bleakness of it all. The scent of charred fat hung heavy in the air, but its promise rang hollow.

A sigh escaped her lips, languid and drawn out. She slumped back into the cushioned seat, letting her gaze wander lazily to the antique clock mounted on the wall. The hour hand inched forward, each tick a reminder that her time—everyone’s time—was borrowed. Paid for. Inescapable. The monochrome world outside the window moved at its own pace, an endless current of gray faces chasing after moments they could not reclaim.

"Man, I don’t know how you do it," Rodion finally muttered, nudging her plate aside. "I get it, the steak's probably great and all, but it just... looks so sad. Like it forgot how to be food."

She laughed, a short, airy sound—more for herself than anyone else. There was a mirthless tilt to it, a resigned acceptance buried beneath her easygoing facade. Her fingers drummed softly on the table, a restless beat to break the monotony of her thoughts.

"Guess it's just me," she continued, a wry grin curving her lips. "Not like I got the cash to pay for a lamp that'll make it look appetizing." Rodion leaned forward, her chin resting lazily on her palm.