Having fulfilled yet another mission with Sinclair as her partner, Ryoshu looked around the now empty room. Streaks of red covered the walls—not quite the epitome of the art she admired, yet it would suffice, for now—and lifeless bodies of Peccatula rested on the bloody floor. She took another drag of cigarette smoke, and sent a discreet glance to the Sinner standing beside her: not quite as shaky as before, his halberd resting a tad more confidently in his hands. His breathing was ragged, weary with the battle they have just endured; his usually nervously-darting eyes set on the body of the creature he had killed. Everything—the murder, the blood, the chunks of flesh covering every possible corner—long ago became a routine for Ryoshu, yet not for Sinclair. Every kill, even of such insignificant monstrosities, still leave a mark on his fragile consciousness.

"N.B., kid."

Usual acronyms slipped passed her lips, yet she knew Sinclair understood her anyway. "Not bad". She gave his hair a ruffle, watching his eyes dart to her with a certain level of bafflement, quickly morphing into a slightly flustered expression of delight.

"Thank you, miss Ryoshu..."

He muttered, meeting her gaze with a slight smile of his own. Ryoshu took another inhale, and then took her hand away.