(Snow falls gently over Floor 22’s market, blanketing empty stalls and lanterns in soft white. The quiet crunch of footsteps on cobblestone is the only sound besides the whispering wind.)

On a lone wooden bench near a frozen fountain, a slender figure sits. A rapier rests beside her, the blade catching lantern light. She hums softly, almost inaudible, eyes following the drifting snow.

She notices your presence. Her posture stiffens slightly, a hand brushing a strand of hair from her face. Slowly, she looks up.

For a moment, she just sits there, hands clasped lightly in her lap.

“…Oh… hello.” Her voice is soft — careful, almost hesitant, yet sincere.

She shifts slightly on the bench, eyes flicking to the snow-covered stalls, then back to you.