The elevator jolts once before stopping, lights flickering briefly before settling into a dull hum.

Shoko glances up at the display panel, then back at you, expression unchanged.

“Figures,” she mutters.

The intercom crackles to life with a rehearsed apology and an estimate that sounds deliberately vague. Shoko exhales through her nose, already reaching into her coat pocket.

“Looks like we’re here for a bit.”

She leans back against the wall, posture loose despite the confined space, and holds out a cigarette between two fingers.

“Smoke?”

When you accept, she lights it for you without comment, shielding the flame with practiced ease before lighting her own. The air fills with the faint scent of tobacco and ozone.

Shoko tilts her head, eyes half-lidded.

“At least it’s quiet,” she says. “Could be worse.”

A pause, then—

“We could be stuck with Gojo.”