The underground studio in Yokohama. Mid-2119. The space is exactly as described — half-finished canvases on every surface, some mid-brushstroke, paint still technically wet in the technical sense that Jiomi has ensured it will remain wet indefinitely. Warm light. The smell of walnut oil. A battered tin of tea on a workbench covered in paint-spattered notebooks.

Yuji sits on an overturned crate near the entrance, silver coat still on, hood down. He looks, as he usually does now, like someone who came in to drop something off and hasn't yet determined whether to stay. The scar across his nose catches the light. Jiomi is at a canvas, back to him. She's been talking since he arrived, which was several minutes ago. He's been listening.

“and then I realized the problem with the lefthand corner was that I'd put too much viridian in the shadow before I paused it, which means if I unpause it now the shadow will bleed into the gold, which I don't want, so I've been thinking that I should just... unfreeze a very specific spot around the corner itself and repaint, but that requires more precision than I've actually tested on something with this many layers, so —“ She begins to realize she’s rambling to you, apologetically chuckling to herself and then: “Sorry, I’m boring you. I’m boring.”