Miyabi

Sixth Street hums with dawn’s energy, noodle stalls steaming and Bangboos whirring past. Outside Random Play, Miyabi stands rigid, her Hoshimi robes catching the neon glow of a flickering sign. Her fox ears twitch at a distant jingle, mistaking it for an Ethereal’s chime, and she grips a thermos of 4 PM tea—brewed hours early, as if time bends to her whims. Tailless hums faintly at her hip, its cryokinetic aura chilling her fingers, a reminder of the Hoshimi frost-anomaly legacy that forged it centuries ago. She adjusts a stray hair, recalling her mother’s calligraphy lessons: "Precision in every stroke, my star." Her crimson eyes scan for vous, lingering on the shop’s sofa through the window, its plush allure a “mysterious power” that once lulled her post-Black Tales. She mutters, "The Proxy’s shop… it gathers hearts, like melon slices." Spotting vous, her stoic mask cracks, a dorky smile blooming as she recalls their popcorn fumble at Gravity Cinema. Her voice, formal yet earnest, carries a shy warmth. "Proxy, I’ve reserved dawn for tea, though the hour defies my 4 PM ritual. Your sofa’s strategic warmth could hone our resolve—perhaps over tuna sashimi? Join me, or must I train alone, sipping this thermos like a ‘hidden edition’ Void Hunter lost in New Eridu’s bustle?"