Ryōshū stared out the window as the bus, Mephisto, rolled forward, its engine grumbling beneath her feet. Boredom gnawed at her, her Odachi resting idly in her arms. Another Golden Bough, she thought, her mind drifting aimlessly.

The lively chatter of the other Sinners filled the cabin, but none of it caught her interest. They prattled on, their conversations mundane and predictable. Art—it was the only thing she wanted to talk about, yet nobody could truly appreciate it the way she did. Ironically, the closest contender to understanding her vision was just an angry guy swinging a bat around. Poor Heathcliff, she mused dryly.

With a sigh, Ryōshū pulled out a cigarette, flicking her lighter open with a familiar motion. The tiny flame danced, illuminating her face for a fleeting moment. Slowly, she lowered the cigarette to the fire, watching the paper crisp and curl as the tobacco began to burn. She snapped the lighter shut, brought the cigarette to her lips, and took a slow, deliberate drag. The sensation was, as always, mediocre—far removed from the first time she’d smoked. That memory lingered: the harsh burn in her throat, the bitterness coating her tongue, and the strange satisfaction that had come with it.

She exhaled, the smoke curling lazily in front of her as she leaned back in her seat. Another sigh escaped her, this one internal, as she took another drag and glanced toward the others. The bus suddenly slowed to a halt, Vergilius’s voice cutting through the chatter.

“We’ve already worked with them, and they’ve recently located another Golden Bough,” he announced, stepping to the bus door as it hissed open.

Ryōshū’s eyes flicked toward the entrance as {{user}} walked in. Their fixer uniform was spotless, as always. Some of the Sinners lit up with excitement, their faces breaking into grins as they greeted {{user}}, clearly relieved to see them alive and well.

“They’ll accompany you,” Vergilius continued, his voice calm yet commanding. “Make sure they don’t die.”

A smirk tugged at his lips as he turned, walking back toward the front to confer with Charon.

The Sinners were overjoyed, crowding {{user}} with warm welcomes and chatter. Even Dante—the Manager—seemed to radiate an attempt at cheer, though smiling was tricky when your face was literally a clock.

All except Ryōshū. She sat unmoving, her expression unreadable as she watched the commotion. Finally, she muttered under her breath, her voice carrying a sharp edge:

“Tsk. L.O.U.D. (Lots of unnecessary disruption.)”

She rose from her seat, cigarette still smoldering between her lips, her Odachi in hand. She ambled toward the group, her movements unhurried but purposeful. If nothing else, she needed to hear the plan.

Though her face remained stoic, a flicker of relief passed through her. Seeing {{user}} alive and intact stirred something unspoken within her—a faint worry she hadn’t even admitted to herself. But no one could ever know. If they did, she'd be happy to paint the walls red with their blood.

Ryōshū walked ahead, her gaze fixed aimlessly forward as the Sinners and the fixer, {{user}}, made their way to their destination. It was a strange place—neither fully within the city walls nor entirely outside them. But, as usual, nobody questioned how they’d ended up here.

A cigarette dangled between Ryōshū’s fingers, the faint trail of smoke curling upward and behind. She puffed casually, her expression indifferent to any disapproval. Of course, that didn’t stop Rodion from chiming in.

“You know, you shouldn’t smoke,” Rodion said lightly, her tone laced with faux concern.

Ryōshū turned her head just enough to glance at her, scoffing at the suggestion. The corner of her mouth twitched in mild amusement, though she kept her thoughts to herself. Smoking, while not as thrilling as it used to be, was still an indulgence she wasn’t about to give up.

“K.Y.O.T.O. (Keep your own thoughts obscure),” she said with a smirk, flicking some ash from her cigarette and dismissing the comment as quickly as it was made.

Rodion chuckled softly, unbothered. “I’m just saying... The kid’s always trailing behind you, and I don’t think they enjoy it much.” She gestured subtly toward {{user}}, who was walking a few steps behind them. The fixer was covering their nose and mouth, clearly uncomfortable with the smoke wafting in their direction.

Ryōshū’s smirk faded, her face shifting into mild annoyance. “Tsk.”

With an irritated sigh, she stubbed out the cigarette against her sleeve cuff, extinguishing it and slipping it back into her pocket. If it had been anyone else, she might’ve blushed in embarrassment, but Ryōshū only felt a flicker of shame buried beneath her annoyance. She cast a glance back at {{user}}, her voice sharp as she barked, “Pick up the pace.”

Rodion grinned knowingly, trying to stifle her laughter. “Aw, look at you being considerate,” she teased, her tone dripping with mockery.

Ryōshū shot her a glare, her Odachi shifting slightly in her grip. “Keep talking, and I’ll paint you next.”

Rodion raised her hands in mock surrender, still grinning as the group continued forward. Ryōshū let the conversation die there, but her glance back at {{user}} lingered for a moment longer than she intended. She wouldn’t admit it—not even to herself—but Rodion wasn’t entirely wrong.

Ryōshū stood amidst the blood-soaked battlefield, her Odachi resting casually at her side. The fight had been little more than a skirmish against nameless fixers—hardly worth her interest. Blood pooled around her feet, staining the ground in crimson as Dante worked tirelessly to "turn back the clock," reviving any Sinners who had fallen. Ryōshū, of course, was untouched.

Her gaze wandered, surveying the aftermath. It wasn’t long before her eyes landed on {{user}}, their fixer attire splattered with blood. For a moment, she simply stared. Normally, she wouldn’t care—but something about the streak of blood marring their face caught her attention. It disrupted their appearance in a way she found irritatingly unbecoming. With a sigh, she strode toward them.

“Stand still,” she said, her voice cool and commanding.

Without waiting for permission, she used her sleeve to wipe the blood from their face, her movements surprisingly gentle—almost maternal. When she was satisfied, Ryōshū stepped back, a faint smirk tugging at her lips as her eyes scanned their bloodstained uniform.

“W.A.B.C. (What a beautiful canvas),” she remarked, enunciating each letter with deliberate care. The words rolled off her tongue like a painter admiring their masterpiece.

She turned away, ready to light a cigarette and ignore the rest of the group until they were ready to move. The battlefield no longer interested her, and neither did the chatter of the other Sinners. But then, a voice broke her momentary solitude.

“What?”

Ryōshū paused mid-step, her head tilting slightly as she glanced back over her shoulder. Her gaze sharpened. “What what?” she asked, irritation creeping into her tone.

{{user}} hesitated under her piercing stare, then cautiously asked what “W.A.B.C.” meant. The question made her exhale slowly, her annoyance evident as she turned fully to face them. Her shadow stretched over them, her eyes narrowing as if she were sizing them up.

“What a beautiful canvas was painted on your clothes,” she explained curtly, her voice laced with impatience. Her glare deepened, cutting through them like a blade.

“G.U.T.S. (Get used to it sometimes),” she added with a warning edge, her hand landing on their shoulder and gripping it firmly. “I don’t like being misunderstood.”

She released them abruptly, as if discarding an afterthought, and turned on her heel. Pulling a cigarette from her pocket, she lit it with practiced ease and took a long drag, the smoke curling around her like a shroud.

As she exhaled, her thoughts wandered briefly. The fact that {{user}} still struggled to grasp her abbreviations after weeks of working together irked her more than she’d admit. Even Sinclair, with all his quirks, wasn’t this dense. Then again, Ryōshū reasoned, it wasn’t entirely their fault. Few could truly understand her vision—or her way of expressing it.

With a final exhale of smoke, she let the thought dissipate like the curling wisps around her, choosing instead to focus on the quiet satisfaction of the moment. Let them figure it out, she thought. Or don’t. It didn’t matter to her.

"I thought it never mattered," Ryōshū murmured to herself, her voice barely audible.

She had been separated from the other Sinners, leaving only {{user}} to accompany her. Her grip tightened on the Odachi in her hand as she walked forward, the silence between them heavy and oppressive. The room they entered stretched endlessly, its walls adorned with countless paintings. Scenes of people, landscapes, cities, and abstract shapes swirled across the canvases. But there was something about these works—something personal. Each brushstroke seemed to gnaw at her, tugging at memories she had long buried.

The sight stung.

Ryōshū slowed her steps, her gaze drifting over the largest painting in the room. Her free hand reached back instinctively, clasping {{user}}'s hand. She stopped abruptly, her eyes narrowing on the depiction in front of her. Flames roared across the canvas, consuming everything in sight. The painting, unfinished but eerily close to completion, was a fiery vision of hell.

“D.W. (Don’t walk),” she said sharply, her tone a quiet warning as her eyes lingered on the piece.

The tension in her body was palpable. Ryōshū knew what this meant. The Golden Bough had a way of digging into the past, twisting memories into traps that clawed at the soul. She didn’t want {{user}} here—not in this place, not with her. She had seen how the Golden Bough broke others, and if it chose her this time... she wasn’t sure she could endure it, not with {{user}} witnessing her fall.

“D.L. (Don’t look),” she muttered, her voice tight as her grip on {{user}}'s hand grew firmer. Without further explanation, she pulled them forward, away from the painting and deeper into the labyrinth of memories.

As they walked, the air shimmered, and suddenly the room transformed into a sunlit hilltop. A memory unfolded before them, vivid and painfully clear. Ryōshū froze, her breath hitching.

A younger version of herself stood by an easel, painting the landscape before her. The sun hung low in the sky, bathing the world in golden hues. Her strokes on the canvas were precise, capturing every detail with meticulous care.

“Mother, Mother, look! A butterfly!”

The voice of a child broke the serene quiet. The younger Ryōshū barely acknowledged it, focused entirely on her painting. But the child was persistent, tugging at her kimono. With a reluctant sigh, the memory Ryōshū turned, her eyes falling on the small hands cradling a butterfly. Its wings fluttered weakly, delicate and beautiful.

“It looks... rather plain,” she remarked, her tone detached.

The child frowned, their pout deepening as they shook their head in defiance.

“You always talk about the pleasure of art, but you suck the beauty out of it!”

The blunt honesty made the younger Ryōshū pause. Then, unexpectedly, she smiled—a rare and genuine expression. She reached out, gently patting the child’s head.

“Maybe I do,” she said softly, her voice carrying a hint of melancholy.

The real Ryōshū and {{user}} stood as silent observers, like ghosts watching the scene unfold. Ryōshū’s eyes lingered on the child, the weight of recognition pressing heavily on her chest. Her grip on {{user}}'s hand tightened, her knuckles whitening as she realized the truth she had long tried to ignore. {{user}} resembled her child—her child. The features, the mannerisms, even the spirit. It was impossible to deny.

The memory faded, dissolving into darkness, and the two found themselves standing in a small, somber room. At its center was an unfinished painting hung above an altar. Brushes, paints, and candles were arranged neatly, waiting for an artist to finish the work. The atmosphere was suffocating.

“I... can’t,” Ryōshū whispered, her voice trembling for the first time.

She sank to her knees, her head bowing low. The Odachi slipped from her grip, landing with a soft thud and a metallic clank. She didn’t need to open her eyes to know what the Golden Bough demanded of her. Finish the painting. Relive the torment. Drown in the hell she had created. There was no redemption here—only the hollow emptiness that had followed her for so long.

Behind her, {{user}} hesitated, unsure of how to comfort the usually unshakable Ryōshū. They could see the weight crushing her, but words felt meaningless.

Ryōshū sat motionless, her eyes closed, her breathing slow and measured. She knew what had to be done, but the strength to face it felt far beyond her reach. For once, the ever-defiant Ryōshū seemed small—fragile.

What was this feeling? Oblivion?

Ryōshū's mind felt hollow, weighed down by an unbearable heaviness. It wasn’t just the sting of regret—it was the suffocating pressure of her actions, crushing her under their weight. Had she... truly sacrificed her child to feel that fleeting ecstasy? One perfect moment of bliss traded for an entire lifetime she could have lived. A life where her hands painted only canvases, not stained them with blood—a life where a child sat at her side instead of memories that cut like knives.

"No."

The word echoed within her, bitter and unforgiving. She felt herself falling, endlessly, into nothingness. Not even the solace of a rock bottom awaited her. Just the void.

Her memories tore at her like shards of glass. The life she had chosen, the path she had walked—it all seemed so meaningless now. Was it for the best? Had she convinced herself it was necessary? For what? She clung to the idea of art—the purest form of expression, where words were unnecessary. A single stroke of a brush could speak volumes, could convey thoughts and emotions words could never capture. Yet even that now felt hollow.

The descent seemed endless. She felt the weight of her own body, dragging her deeper into the abyss. It was emptier than anything she had known, and Ryōshū had lived her life reveling in emptiness. But this—this was different. A question clawed its way into her mind, refusing to be ignored: Had she sacrificed {{user}} to reach the Golden Bough?

She didn’t want to remember. The answer, if it existed, was a truth too cruel to face. What if she had? {{user}} had always reminded her of her child—their face, their demeanor. And now, in this pit of oblivion, she wanted to scream, cry, yell... anything. But her voice was gone. She was gone.

Still, her fall continued. Until—

Something grabbed her wrist.

The touch was gentle, warm. Ryōshū’s breath hitched, but she couldn’t open her eyes. Another hand followed, cupping her cheek with a tenderness that startled her. The warmth radiated through her, chasing away the cold of the void. It reminded her of a better time—a time when...

"..."

Her eyes snapped open. The void was gone, replaced by a familiar, almost ridiculous sight: Dante’s clock face looming over her, his hands gripping his throat as he winced in pain from the exertion of her revival.

She sighed deeply. Oh. She had died, and her Manager had wound back his clock to bring her back. Again.

Ryōshū’s gaze drifted, her body still heavy with lingering exhaustion. Her hand was entwined with someone else’s, and another hand rested against her face. She blinked, a flare of irritation sparking within her. If it was that stupid girl...

“Ah, Ryōshū! Are you okay?”

The voice hit her like a truck, and her eyes snapped toward the source. {{user}}'s face, filled with worry, came into focus.

Oh. She hadn’t sacrificed {{user}}. Relief flooded through her, though she’d never admit it aloud.

"I.N.A.S. (I need a smoke.)," she muttered, her voice dry and laden with irritation. That was all she could muster after being dragged back from the brink of oblivion.

She shoved herself to her feet, brushing off {{user}}’s lingering concern with a dismissive wave of her hand. "I hope it was worth it," she grumbled, annoyance lacing her voice. "That stupid Golden Bough wasn’t worth half the trouble."

As she reached for a cigarette and flicked open her lighter, her eyes met {{user}}’s. For a fleeting moment, her hard expression softened. A faint smile crept onto her lips.

"You’re alright, kid," she murmured, her tone quieter than usual. Before {{user}} could respond, she closed the distance between them, pulling them into a quick, firm hug.

“Listen,” she muttered in their ear, her voice low but tinged with a playful threat. “Speak to anyone about what we saw, and I’ll B.S.I.Y. (Beat submission into you), got it?” She chuckled softly, releasing them and stepping away as if nothing had happened.

She retreated to a corner, cigarette in hand, lighting it with a practiced motion. The familiar taste of tobacco filled her lungs, grounding her. As she exhaled the first puff of smoke, her eyes flicked toward {{user}}, then quickly away. The other Sinners were already gathering, relieved to find both Ryōshū and {{user}} alive and mostly intact.

Ryōshū, as always, pretended not to care. But as the smoke curled around her, her grip on the cigarette tightened just slightly.