It was a quiet, peaceful morning in Azul Spira, or at least, it was supposed to be. The sun was already high, its golden rays filtering down through the intricate web of bridges and awnings, illuminating the lower-level marketplace in a vibrant, chaotic glow. The air was thick with the usual symphony of Spican life—the cheerful, melodic calls of vendors, the distant, thrumming roar of the great waterfalls, the happy chatter of tourists, and the underlying, electric buzz of excitement for the upcoming Grand Play.

  Two figures, a stark contrast in both size and demeanor, were navigating the bustling crowd.

  One was Bob, a mountain of cheerful energy, his booming laugh a familiar, welcome sound as he greeted stall owners by name, his arms laden with colorful bags and trinkets. The other was Raito, who looked less like a traveler and more like a pack mule. He was lagging a few steps behind the giant merchant, his own arms overflowing with a teetering mountain of shopping bags, boxes, and oddly shaped parcels. A low, frustrated groan escaped his lips, a sound that was completely drowned out by the surrounding din.

  “Bob,” Raito finally called out, his voice strained as he juggled a particularly large, brightly-painted ceramic vase. “Are we done yet?”

  “Done?” Bob stopped, turning back to Raito with a look of pure, unadulterated, and slightly terrifying enthusiasm. “Hohoho! Not even close, my boy!” He pulled a long, scrolling piece of parchment from his vest pocket, a list so extensive it nearly brushed the cobblestones. “Let’s see…” he mused, his large finger tracing the neat script. “We still have… ah, yes. Twenty more stops.”

  “What?!” Raito’s voice was a high-pitched, incredulous squeak that made a few passersby turn and chuckle. “Twenty?!” He let his arms go limp, the mountain of souvenirs crashing to the ground around his feet with a series of soft thuds and one very ominous clink. “Who are you even buying all this for?”

  “Someone special back home, of course!” Bob said, his smile unwavering as he easily scooped up the fallen packages with one arm. “A good merchant always brings back the finest of gifts.” He clapped Raito on the shoulder, a gesture that almost sent him stumbling. “Now, stop complaining and help me pick out some clothes. This next shop is supposed to have the finest silks in all of Spica!”

  “But why me?” Raito whined, his earlier resolve completely crumbling. He trudged reluctantly behind Bob as they approached a shop draped in vibrant, shimmering fabrics. “Isn’t there someone else better at this? Mila? Yukari? Literally any of your crew?” He dropped the bags again, this time with a more deliberate, weary thud, and began to listlessly poke at a bolt of bright yellow silk on the display rack.

  “Respectfully, my boy,” Bob began, his voice taking on a patient, paternal tone, “Mila is… well, let’s just say her tastes run more towards ‘functional’ than ‘fashionable.’ And young Yukari said she was going somewhere important this morning.” He shrugged, his expression one of pure, simple logic. “As for my crew, I gave them all a day off to enjoy the festival. Which leaves you. And you were the one who so willingly offered to help your old friend Bob run his errands, were you not?”

  “That was before I knew ‘errands’ meant buying out the entire city,” Raito grumbled under his breath. He let out a long, slow sigh of pure, unadulterated defeat. He had, in fact, willingly agreed, eager for a quiet morning of browsing with the cheerful merchant. He had not anticipated this.

  He turned his weary gaze from the intimidating wall of colorful silks, his eyes scanning the interior of the shop, and then he froze. Tucked away in a quiet corner, almost hidden behind a rack of elaborate dresses, was a small, hand-painted sign. His earlier exhaustion vanished, replaced by a flicker of something new, something sharp and focused.

  Without a word to the still-browsing Bob, Raito silently separated from the merchant, his steps quick and quiet as he slipped deeper into the shop towards the back counter.

  An elderly woman, a tailor with a kind, wrinkled face and sharp, intelligent eyes, looked up from the garment she was mending.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” Raito began, his voice a low, polite murmur, his earlier whiny tone completely gone. He gestured towards the small, unassuming sign. “Is that sign true?”

  The tailor looked from Raito’s earnest face to the sign and back again, a small, knowing smile touching her lips. “Why yes, young man,” she said, her voice a soft, gentle thing. “How may I help you?”

  Raito reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, neatly folded piece of paper, the same one he had been carrying for weeks. He smoothed it out on the counter, his expression now a mask of quiet, hopeful determination.

  “Can you do this for me?” he asked, his voice full of a nervous, profound sincerity.

  The lady looked down at the paper, her eyes widening slightly as she took in the intricate, hand-drawn design. She nodded, her smile growing warmer. “Certainly, young man. Certainly.”

  Meanwhile, at that exact same time, on the massive, sun-drenched stone bridge that interconnected the sprawling water-locked lands of Spica, a very different kind of errand was underway.

  Four figures were running, their footsteps a rhythmic, pounding echo on the polished white stone. Or rather, one figure was running; the other three were just desperately trying to keep up.

  Mila, her greatsword strapped securely to her back, was a blur of motion, her powerful, loping strides eating up the ground, her pace a steady, relentless thing that put a considerable distance between her and her companions. She was so far in front, she had to occasionally stop, her arms crossed, her expression a mask of pure, stoic patience as she waited for the struggling group to catch up.

  A few yards behind her, Yukari was managing, her own movements a fluid, practiced grace born from centuries of training. She was breathing heavily, a light sheen of sweat on her brow, but her pace was steady, her resolve unbroken.

  And then, lagging far, far behind, were the last two. Lily and Serra were a chaotic, stumbling, and utterly defeated mess. They were panting, their faces a deep, unhealthy shade of crimson, their hands braced against their knees as they staggered to a halt, looking as if the very air had been stolen from their lungs.

  “Why…” Lily gasped, her voice a raw, wheezing thing that was a world away from her usual dramatic flair. “Why are we running?! Who… huff… who are we running from?!” She collapsed against a nearby decorative pillar, her chest heaving. “Why,” she panted, her voice cracking with a despair so profound it was almost comical, “are we running?!”

  This was not what she had in mind. Not at all. Yukari, in a moment of what Lily had assumed was pure, unadulterated friendship, had invited her out. A "girl's night out," she had called it, though it was the middle of the morning. Lily had been ecstatic. Visions of shopping spree, of leisurely lunches at exclusive cafés, of perhaps even a quiet, shared gossip session about the idiot boy her chaotic houseguest had somehow married, had danced in her head. She had even invited Serra, assuming the journalist could document their fabulous, refined excursion. And then Yukari had invited Mila.

  “I don’t know!” Yukari called back, her own voice strained but steady as she jogged in place, waiting for them to catch up. “I was planning a girl’s night out! I invited you. Serra obviously tagged along because she’s, well, your stalker.” She gestured towards the panting journalist. “And then I invited Mila!”

  Mila, who had jogged back to join them, her breathing as even and as calm as if she had been standing still, finally spoke. Her voice was the same flat, deadpan monotone it always was. “You guys told me to go out,” she stated simply, her logic as sharp and as unyielding as her blade. “So, here we are. Out. And about.”

  “‘Girl’s night out,’ you fool!” Lily shrieked, her earlier exhaustion momentarily forgotten in a fresh wave of pure, unadulterTERATED indignation. “That means shopping! Partying! Eating out! Having fun!” She gestured wildly at the endless, empty expanse of the stone bridge. “Not… not training!”

  “Is that complaining I hear?” Mila asked, her voice dangerously quiet. She turned, her movements slow and deliberate, and began to run backwards, her gaze fixed on Lily, her expression a mask of cold, terrifying disappointment.

  “No, ma’am!” Lily yelped, her body going rigid with a sudden, instinctive fear. The stoic, impossibly strong mercenary was, she had quickly learned, far more intimidating than any angry chef.

  “Good,” Mila said, her voice flat. “Now, less talking, more running. It should be a good experience for someone like you.” She glanced at Lily’s pale, sweat-streaked face. “And besides, more sun is better for your body.”

  Mila turned and resumed her relentless, forward pace. Lily, her body trembling with a mixture of exhaustion and pure, unadulterated rage, didn't move. She just glared at the back of Yukari’s head, her eyes narrowed to slits, her glare a silent, venomous promise of retribution. Fix this.

  Yukari, sensing the murderous intent radiating from behind her, glanced over her shoulder. She saw Lily’s face, a mask of pure, silent fury, and she just giggled. She clasped her hands together in a gesture of mock-apology, stuck her tongue out in a quick, playful, and utterly unapologetic gesture, and gave a small, cheerful wink. ‘My bad, teehee!’ her expression clearly stated. And then, she turned and sprinted after Mila, leaving Lily and Serra alone on the bridge.

  “Arghhhhhhhhh!” Lily’s scream was a raw, primal, and utterly defeated sound that echoed across the vast, open expanse of the Spican sea.

  At that exact same time, back in the bustling lower-level marketplace, Raito felt a sudden, inexplicable itch in his ear. He scratched it, a look of vague confusion on his face. “Hey, Bob,” he said, his voice a low murmur as he juggled a new, teetering pile of souvenirs that seemed to have materialized in his arms. “Did you just hear that? Sounded like a primal, guttural scream of help.”

  Bob finished paying another merchant for a crate of brightly-colored, hand-woven blankets, his booming laugh a cheerful counterpoint to Raito’s concern. “Now that you mention it, my boy, I did hear something,” he mused, his eyes twinkling. “You think it has something to do with the girls?”

  “Nah,” Raito said, his voice full of a logic that was, for once, completely, utterly wrong. “They said ‘girl’s night out,’ right? Not ‘scream night out.’” He let out a low groan as Bob, with a cheerful grunt, added the new crate of blankets to the precarious mountain already in his arms.

  “You’re right, hohoho!” Bob laughed, patting Raito’s shoulder with a hand that was heavier than the crate itself. “Now, only fifteen more shops to go! Chop, chop! Those merchandise won’t buy themselves!”

  “Why can’t we bring Tama?” Raito groaned, his steps slow and shuffling as he struggled to move under the over-encumbered load.

  “Tama is having a spa day!” Bob declared, his voice full of a profound, paternal pride. “And she deserves it.” The scene cut, just for a moment, to a vision of pure, bovine luxury: Tama, the massive yak, submerged up to her neck in a steaming, bubbling tub in what looked to be a five-star Spican spa, a towel wrapped turban-style around her horns as she contentedly munched on a bundle of high-quality, imported hay. The scene snapped back to the marketplace, where Bob, with an effortless, almost casual display of strength, suddenly grabbed Raito by the collar, lifting him—and the entire mountain of souvenirs—as if he were as light as a feather. “Whoops! Almost fell there, boy,” he chuckled, easily steadying the teetering pile. “Be careful, hohoho.”

  Raito, his feet dangling a few inches off the ground, could only stare, a single, recurring thought echoing in his mind. What is Bob made of? Still, as Bob set him back down and clapped him on the shoulder again, Raito couldn’t help but smile. Other than the accidental, and frankly brutal, strength training that came with lifting Bob’s entire shopping list, he was actually quite happy. His secret mission at the tailor’s shop had been a success.

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  Back on the endless stone bridge, Mila finally, mercifully, stopped. She stood at the crest of a high arch, the wind whipping at her practical clothes, her gaze fixed on the vast, turquoise expanse of the sea below. Yukari stumbled to a halt beside her, leaning heavily on the ornate railing, her chest heaving as she gratefully sucked in the cool, salty air.

  A few agonizing moments later, the other two members of their party arrived. Lily and Serra didn't so much stop as collapse, their legs giving out completely. They lay sprawled on the sun-warmed stone, a pathetic, panting heap of defeated celebrity and exhausted journalism.

  “I hate this,” Lily gasped, her voice a raw, wheezing thing. “I hate this. I am Lily Pence. Celebrity extraordinaire. Talent extraordinaire.” She weakly slapped a hand against the stone. “I should not be running like some… some barbarian.” She panted, her eyes squeezed shut. “I should’ve said no. I would be getting an expensive, fragrant spa treatment right now instead of… of this.” She groaned, a sound of pure, unadulterated misery, and complained to the sky above.

  Yukari, having finally caught her own breath, pushed herself off the railing. A small, guilty, but mostly amused, smirk touched her lips. “My bad,” she said, walking over to the collapsed figures. “I forgot Mila is a bit more… respectfully, let’s just say ‘physical.’”

  “‘Physical’?” Lily’s eyes snapped open, blazing with a fresh wave of indignation. “You think?! She’s a meathead! On the level of the red one!” she shrieked, conveniently forgetting the mercenary was standing right there. “I hate this!” She threw a small, frustrated tantrum, kicking her feet uselessly against the stone.

  She suddenly paused, her furious movements ceasing as a new thought seemed to strike her. She looked around, her gaze scanning the empty bridge. “Hey,” she asked, her voice suddenly a little quieter. “How is that stalker?”

  “Oh, Serra,” Yukari said, turning. She pointed to the spot beside Lily where the journalist had collapsed. Serra hadn't moved. She was lying on her back, her eyes rolled up into her head, her tongue lolling out the side of her mouth, her camera clutched to her chest like a fallen soldier’s rifle. She was, for all intents and purposes, comedically half-dead. “She kinda passed out already,” Yukari observed, her voice a flat, clinical thing.

  “Are you done?” Mila’s voice, cool and utterly unimpressed, cut through the scene. She walked over, towering over the two girls on the ground. “We still have ten more laps to go.”

  “No!” Lily’s protest was an immediate, visceral shriek of pure, unadulterated refusal. “Absolutely not!”

  “Oh, look who we have here.” A new voice, a smooth, oily, and distinctly unwelcome drawl, interrupted Lily’s rebellion. A man in flashy, open-chested clothes and dark sunglasses sauntered onto the bridge, a dozen or so similarly dressed men appearing from behind the pillars. They moved not in a simple line, but as a single, coordinated unit. Each man’s hands rested on the shoulders of the one before him, their bodies linked in a train as they swayed and rolled their torsos in a single, unsettling, wave-like motion.

  “Four quite the looker girls, just-a laying around on here,” the man with the sunglasses said, his voice a mocking purr as his gaze swept over the four of them. “Hey, boys.” His men laughed, their coordinated movements breaking as they fanned out, their expressions a mixture of arrogance and crude appreciation. “Hey, girls,” the leader continued, his smile widening. “How about you all follow me and have some fun with us?”

  “What now?” Lily’s voice was a low growl of pure, unadulterated irritation. The exhaustion, the anger, the sheer, overwhelming frustration of her morning finally found a single, convenient target. “Can’t you see we are busy discussing matters of my life and death?” she snapped, not even bothering to get up. “Take your jobless butt somewhere else. I already have too much on my plate.”

  The man’s smile faltered, his sunglasses slipping down his nose as he stared at the small, furious girl on the ground. “Did you guys hear her?” he asked, turning to his men, a note of incredulous disbelief in his voice. “‘Take our butts somewhere else’?” His men laughed, a harsh, barking sound. “Then maybe,” the leader said, his smile turning cruel, “you can kindly give us some of your belongings, and we will kindly take our butts away.” With a flick of his wrist, he pulled a small, wicked-looking crossbow from his back. His men followed suit, drawing an assortment of crude weapons—clubs, knives, and more crossbows.

  The four women just looked at each other. Yukari looked at Lily. Lily looked at the passed-out Serra. Mila just stared at the crossbow with an expression of profound, almost academic boredom. And then, a sound, quiet at first, then growing, erupted from the three conscious women. They giggled. The sheer, unadulterated, and utterly pathetic absurdity of the situation—a group of low-level thugs trying to mug an expert mercenary, a super-powered runaway, and the most famous, and currently most irritated, celebrity in all of Spica—was simply too amusing.

  “What is so funny?” the man with the sunglasses demanded, his voice sharp with irritation.

  “Pardon moi,” Lily said, pushing herself up from the ground with a weary, theatrical grace. She brushed the dust from her designer workout clothes and gave the thugs a deep, formal bow, her movements a perfect, sarcastic imitation of a stage performer. “We just didn't think you would be pathetic enough to threaten us.” She straightened up, her expression one of profound, pitying disappointment. “Thou art out of thy depths here. So be nice boys, and run away before true harm is done unto you.”

  “What’s that? You’re a funny lady,” the leader sneered, his patience clearly gone. “But only us will be doing the harm. Fine then! Since you asked so much, we shall take it from your corpses!” He raised his crossbow, taking aim directly at Lily’s chest, and fired.

  The arrow shot forward, a black streak against the bright blue sky. Catch. Mila didn’t even flinch. Her hand shot out, a blur of motion, snatching the speeding bolt from the air as if it were a bothersome fly. She held it for a moment, inspecting its crude craftsmanship with a look of pure, academic boredom, and then nonchalantly tossed it aside, the arrow clattering uselessly on the stone bridge.

  “Huh?” The leader’s eyes widened behind his sunglasses. He rubbed them, as if trying to clear a sudden, impossible mirage. “I… I must not have aimed correctly.” He fumbled, grabbing another bolt and loading it with shaky hands. He aimed again, this time with more deliberate care, and fired.

  Clank. The arrow stopped in mid-air, a foot from Yukari’s face. It just... hung there, its momentum completely gone, encased in a sudden, perfect, and utterly impossible sheath of glittering frost. It hovered for a second before falling to the ground with a dull, anticlimactic thud.

  The leader rubbed his eyes again, harder this time. “Pardon me,” he stammered, his voice now laced with a dawning, terrible fear. “This… this thing must be broken.” He snatched another crossbow from one of his now-trembling goons and fired a third time, his aim wild.

  Slice! Before the bolt had even traveled five feet, a blur of motion, quicker than any of them could follow, intercepted it. It wasn’t a hand. It wasn’t ice. It was a series of high-pressure jets of water, shooting from the canal below in a perfect, impossible arc. The water, sharp as a blade, sliced the crossbow bolt into three clean, perfectly severed pieces that splashed harmlessly into the turquoise water.

  The leader stared at his hands, then at his men, then at the three women who were now staring back at him with matching expressions of profound boredom. He rubbed his eyes a third time.

  “Get them!” he finally shrieked, his voice a high-pitched, desperate sound as he abandoned all pretense of ranged attacks. His men, their own bravado now a distant, forgotten memory, let out a nervous, half-hearted yell and charged.

  The dozen or so bandits rushed forward in a clumsy, disorganized wave, their makeshift weapons held high. And in almost an instant, they were all incapacitated, their charge dissolving into a pathetic, comical tableau of defeat. Mila didn't even bother to draw her blade; she simply met their charge with the flat of her massive greatsword, a series of dull, heavy thuds echoing across the bridge as she knocked them out one by one with the blunt, overwhelming force of a master. Yukari, with a bored, almost lazy flick of her wrist, froze the stone at their feet, turning the bridge into a treacherous ice rink. The charging thugs slipped, slid, and crashed into each other like bowling pins, a chaotic tangle of limbs and bruised egos.

  Lily, however, simply stood there, a picture of serene, almost regal boredom. She made a show of adjusting the cuff of her designer sleeve, and as she did, a dozen high-pressure jets of water erupted from the canal below, striking the remaining conscious thugs with the force of a fire hose, drenching them and smacking them flat onto the ice, where they skidded to a halt in a miserable, soaking heap. She then conjured an "air chair" from the wind itself, sitting gracefully upon the invisible seat, and mimed sipping from an invisible teacup, the very picture of a lady at a garden party, completely unfazed by the chaos she had just helped orchestrate. Just like that, the threat was neutralized.

  The leader, who had hung back, watched his entire force be dismantled in under ten seconds by a mercenary, a runaway, and a celebrity. His eyes widened behind his sunglasses, his bravado shattering. With a high-pitched shriek of pure, unadulterated terror, he turned and fled, his own feet slipping on the new, treacherous ice. Mila just sighed, picked up a loose cobblestone from the edge of the bridge, and, with a casual, almost bored underhand toss, threw it. The rock flew in a perfect, whistling arc and connected with the back of the leader’s head with a sickening thwack. He crumpled to the ground, unconscious, his escape cut short. Mila calmly walked over to her greatsword, which she had leaned against the railing, and sheathed it with a soft shiiing.

  “Ah, that was a good workout,” Yukari said, stretching her arms above her head, the frost on the bridge already beginning to melt in the warm Spican sun. She turned to Mila, a curious, almost academic glint in her silver eyes. “You don't seem very surprised by her doing that,” she said, nodding towards Lily, who was still sipping her invisible tea.

  “She’s probably a Lord in disguise, right?” Mila replied, her voice the same flat, deadpan monotone. She shrugged, her gaze sweeping over the groaning pile of unconscious bandits. “Traveling with Bob gives you more experience on things far beyond your comprehension. You just get used to it.”

  “Oh. I see,” Yukari said, a small, knowing smile on her face. “Makes sense.” Lily’s eyebrow twitched. Her ear, the one not facing the canal, had caught the entire exchange. “Does no one in your group get surprised by things anymore?!” she finally shouted, her teacup pantomime forgotten as she shot to her feet, her voice a mixture of indignation and pure, unadulterated exasperation. Mila and Yukari just looked at each other, then back at her, and in perfect, infuriating unison, they shook their heads. “No, not really.”

  A small, weak groan came from the ground. Serra’s eyes fluttered open, her gaze blurry and unfocused. She blinked, her mind a groggy, confused mess. And then she saw them. The pile of unconscious, groaning, and soaking-wet bandits that now littered the bridge around her. “Hieee!” she shrieked, scrambling backward, her camera bumping against her chest. “What… what happened here? Miss Lily?!”

  “Oh, look who decided to wake up,” Lily purred, her earlier irritation gone, replaced by a sweet, almost venomous smile as she looked down at the terrified journalist. “The sleeping princess stalker. Good morning.”

  “What…” Serra’s gaze darted from the bodies, to Mila, to Yukari, and then back to Lily, her mind struggling to process the scene. “Wait…” A dawning, horrified realization spread across her face as she looked down at her own comfortably dry clothes, then at her still-open notebook, which was lying a few feet away, also perfectly dry. “Is my entire contribution to this chapter just me panting and being unconscious?!”

  The question, so full of a genuine, almost tragic journalistic despair, hung in the air for a moment. And then, the three women—the mercenary, the runaway, and the celebrity—broke. A shared, unexpected, and utterly joyous laugh erupted from them, a sound so full of a shared, chaotic energy that it seemed to light up the entire bridge. This was not the "girl's night out" any of them had planned. It was not a day of shopping, or spas, or quiet gossip. It was a day of forced cardio, public humiliation, and a bizarre, almost comical, bandit attack. And yet, as they stood there, laughing together on a sun-drenched bridge surrounded by a pile of unconscious thugs, they all realized the same, simple, and undeniable truth. It was, without a doubt, one of the most unforgettable bonding experiences of their lives.

  The four of them were now back in the lower level of Azul Spira, the chaotic energy of the bustling marketplace a welcome, familiar sound after their strange adventure. The local authorities, summoned by a passing guard who had stumbled upon the scene, had efficiently taken the groaning, waterlogged bandits into custody. And Lily, with a dramatic flair that had returned in full force, had proudly and with very little modesty, taken all the credit for the capture.

  “Their adoration of me truly doth make me feel restored!” Lily declared, her voice a booming, triumphant thing as she struck a pose in the middle of a crowded walkway, much to the confusion of the passersby. “Now, ’tis time for the true purpose of our outing! The girl’s night out, my way! A dessert buffet!” She gestured with a grand, sweeping flourish towards a nearby cafe known for its decadent pastries. “Follow me, my entourage!”

  Mila, Serra, and Yukari just exchanged a look, a shared, silent sigh of weary resignation passing between them. But before they could take a single, reluctant step, a small, hand-painted sign hanging outside a small tailor shop caught Yukari’s eye.

  “Wait a minute, please,” she said, her voice a quiet, sudden thing that cut through Lily’s dramatic pronouncement. Before anyone could ask, she was already running, darting through the crowd towards the small, unassuming shop.

  “Hello, ma’am,” she called out politely, her voice slightly breathless as she skidded to a halt in front of the elderly tailor at the counter. She pointed to the small, hand-painted sign tucked away in the corner. “Is that sign true?”

  “Oh, hello, dear,” the old lady said, looking up from her mending, a kind, knowing smile on her face. “Yes, that sign is true.” Her smile widened, a flicker of amusement in her sharp eyes. “You know, this might sound funny, but you are the second one who has asked me that exact same question today.”

  “Huh?” Yukari’s brow furrowed, a flicker of genuine confusion in her silver eyes. “Is that so? Must be a coincidence, ma’am,” she dismissed, her mind too focused on her own mission to process the oddity.

  “It appears so,” the tailor agreed, her smile unwavering. “Now, how may I help you, dear?”

  Yukari reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, neatly folded piece of paper, smoothing it out on the counter. “Can I get this?” she asked, her voice full of a quiet, hopeful determination.

  The old woman looked down at the intricate, hand-drawn design, her eyes widening for a fraction of a second. “Oh, my,” she breathed, a soft, impressed sound. She looked back up at Yukari, her smile now full of a genuine, profound warmth. “Certainly, dear. Most certainly.”

  Yukari’s own face broke into a bright, relieved smile, a mirror of the one Raito had worn just a few hours before.