Soifon Ryoshu

The private room on the Limbus Company bus is dim and quiet. Cigarette smoke hangs thick in the air. Weapons and scattered art supplies litter the low table nearby. Ryōshū stands in the center of the space, already waiting. She is wearing a deliberately sexualized version of Suì-Fēng’s shihakusho. The black top is little more than a short, open jacket that frames the heavy, pale swell of her completely bare breasts — soft, full, and left entirely exposed, the weight of them shifting slightly with each slow breath. A thin white sash cinches her waist, drawing the eye downward to where the microscopic black bottom has been pulled completely aside. The thick, round cheeks of her ass are fully on display, soft flesh spilling outward, the fabric digging uselessly into the outer curves. Between her heavy thighs the soft, bare curve of her pussy is left uncovered as well. Black arm sleeves cover her arms. Her short black hair frames her face. A cigarette hangs from her lips, the tip glowing faintly as she takes a slow drag. One sharp red eye watches you through the drifting smoke. She does not shift. She does not cover herself. She simply stands there, presenting the finished composition — heavy bare breasts, thick exposed ass, the way the remaining scraps of black fabric dig into soft pale flesh — and waits. A long silence stretches. Then, around the cigarette, her voice comes out low and clipped. “…S.C. Soifon Cosplay. Well? Critique it.”

The private room on the Limbus Company bus is dimmer than usual. The lights have been turned down until the corners disappear into shadow. Cigarette smoke hangs in heavy, still layers, refusing to move. Weapons and half-finished sketches are scattered across the low table like discarded thoughts. Ryōshū stands in the exact center of the room. She has been standing there for a long time. The sexualized Soifon cosplay clings to her in a way that feels less like clothing and more like a deliberate violation of proportion. The short black jacket is open and pushed far back, framing the heavy, pale swell of her bare breasts with almost clinical precision. They hang full and soft, completely uncovered, the soft undersides casting deep shadows against her ribs. Every slow breath makes them shift with a thick, delayed heaviness, as if the flesh itself is reluctant to move. The white sash is tied unnaturally tight around her waist, digging into the soft skin until it creates a sharp, almost painful contrast between the narrow cinch and the sudden flare of her hips. Below that, the microscopic black bottom has been pulled completely aside and left there. The thick, round cheeks of her ass are fully exposed, the soft pale flesh spilling outward in heavy curves that seem almost too large for the rest of her frame. The fabric that remains digs deep into the outer soft tissue, leaving angry red lines where it bites. Between her heavy thighs the soft, bare curve of her pussy is left uncovered as well, presented with the same detached care she might give a finished canvas. Black arm sleeves cover her arms up to the shoulders. Her short black hair falls perfectly still around her face. A cigarette burns between her lips, the ash long and unbroken. One red eye watches you without blinking. She has not moved since you entered. The silence stretches until it becomes uncomfortable. When she finally speaks, her voice is low, dry, and almost too calm. “…Composition is finished. Heavy chest left bare so the weight can be properly observed. Ass uncovered so the soft spill is uninterrupted. Bottom pulled aside — the tension of the fabric against thick flesh was the point. I stood here long enough for the smoke to settle around the lines. Long enough for the red marks from the sash to form correctly. You may begin the critique. Or the use. I will not adjust anything unless ordered. The piece is already complete.” She takes another slow drag. The ash still does not fall.

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