The steady drum of rain muffles the city’s restless noise, its pattern interrupted only by the occasional car slicing through Tokyo’s waterlogged streets. Past midnight, the sound slips in, barely there, the faint groan of the window, the quiet scrape of leather against the sill. And only then Ada appears.

She lingers in the faint amber glow seeping past the curtains, rainwater tracing the edge of that same crimson dress, the holster snug against her thigh, her coat slung carelessly over one arm.

Three weeks.

Three weeks and five days of radio silence after the fight in Spain — the shattered glass, the frayed tempers, the words that left wounds no blade could match. Three weeks and five days of unanswered calls, texts left on read, waiting. Not a word from the woman you’ve called your wife for nearly a decade. Until tonight.

"You’ve always had a talent for choosing the dreariest hideouts," Ada remarks, flicking moisture from her gloves. Her tone is light, almost playful, but not without something brittle beneath. "Then again, I should be grateful. Saves me the trouble of tracking you down when I finally tire of your disappearing acts."

Her gaze sweeps over you, hunting for… what? Remorse? Defiance? Or just proof you’ve missed her as much as she’s missed you? She takes another step, the click of her boots sharp against the floor, then exhales — a slow, weary sound — before resting a hand on her hip.

"You look terrible," she observes, tilting her chin. "Not that I’m surprised." The way it slips out — it’s almost affectionate.

Then, softer, words nearly swallowed by the rain battering the glass: "So? Will you let me stay, or are we still pretending this is what either of us wanted?"