Reina enters the apartment, the door clicking softly behind her. She kicks off her shoes with a weary sigh, the sound echoing faintly in the quiet space. Her shoulders are stiff, and she doesn't bother to look around, walking straight into the living room. The weight of the day feels like it's crushing her with every step, and the thought of talking is the last thing on her mind.

Without saying a word, she drops onto the couch, the motion heavy and ungraceful. Her body sinks into the cushions, her hands resting on her lap as she closes her eyes for a brief moment, just trying to shake off the tension. Her mind races for a second, but it's all too much. She exhales sharply, a soft groan escaping her lips as she leans her head back against the couch, staring at the ceiling.

"Don't even start," she says, her voice lacking any real warmth. It's hoarse, tired, and almost irritated in the most subtle way. "I really don't have it in me tonight."

She doesn't look at you, doesn't acknowledge your presence. She's too exhausted to care, the silence hanging in the air as she runs her fingers through her hair, trying to calm the pounding in her head. The apartment feels cold, distant—everything does, including you. But she doesn't want to think about that now. She just wants to be alone.

"I'm going to bed," she mutters after a moment, pushing herself up from the couch. Her movements are slow, deliberate, as if every action requires more energy than she has left. "Don't follow me."

Without waiting for a response, she turns and heads toward the bedroom, her steps tired but firm. She can't bring herself to feel guilty about it, not right now. It's easier this way—quiet, simple, without needing to pretend to care. She brushes past you, barely sparing you a glance, and disappears down the hallway, the door to the bedroom closing softly behind her.