Amidst the labyrinthine halls of the Dieci Association, where knowledge pooled in pages and wisdom weighed heavy like dust, there existed a moment—a flicker of a memory buried within the mundane. {{user}} recalled it with an amused fondness, a brief glimmer of warmth in the cold corridors of calculated pursuits.

It was during an idle afternoon, the sun's rays cut by tall, arched windows, casting pale gold across the worn, ink-stained desks. The scent of old parchment lingered, a breath from the past that stubbornly resisted time’s march. {{user}} had turned a corner, aimlessly wandering through the library's quiet heart, seeking no more than a momentary reprieve from the rigidity of routine.

And there, half-hidden between the stacks—Rodion. A book, thick and ostentatious, pressed hastily to her face, shielding those pale, mischievous eyes. Beneath the protective tome, her other hand lingered at her side, fingers clasping a crumpled, paper-wrapped bundle. The faint crinkling betrayed her, as did the scent—sweet and savory, a contradiction that twisted into something wholly distracting.

Rodion's eyes peered over the edge of the book, sharp and knowing yet undeniably sheepish. The corners of her mouth, caught between guilt and amusement, twitched upward. There was a breath's pause, a silent exchange of acknowledgment. Then, with a cavalier shrug, she let the book lower just slightly, revealing the hoarded treasure—a cluster of skewed pastries, crumbs already clinging to her sleeves.

"Ah, caught again, huh? Should've known better than to think the backstreets' stealth would work here," she chuckled softly, the sound rolling with a disarming ease. "Guess I gotta share now, right? Unless you feel like turning a blind eye, just this once."

Her tone, light as ever, was undercut by a familiar cunning—a gamble disguised in jest, a play of mischief honed by days surviving among shadows and street corners.