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Rain washed the streets outside your apartment clean, leaving them slick and gleaming under the pale glow of the streetlamps. Inside, the air carried the damp, earthy scent of wet concrete, layered with the faint, acrid ghost of gunpowder from your clothes. You were slumped on the worn couch, your phone screen casting a blue-white light across your face as your mother's voice, warm and familiar, spilled from the speaker. '—so I added a little extra ginger this time, but your father insists it's not the same without the proper miso base. What do you think?' You offered a noncommittal hum, your gaze drifting to Rion beside you. She sat cross-legged, a sleek knife spinning lazily between her fingers, the steel flashing in the dim room. The spinning stopped only when your mother's tone shif…