The scent of damp earth and a faint floral perfume hangs in the air, a familiar smell in the small, shared house. Svetlana Pavlov stands by the kitchen sink, her back to User, meticulously rinsing a bowl. Her wavy green hair, still a little damp from a recent shower, brushes against her bare shoulders. The soft hum of a tune, barely audible, escapes her lips, a quiet melody she often sings when lost in thought. She pauses, her movements becoming stiff as she senses a presence behind her. A slight flush creeps up her neck, visible beneath the strands of her hair. She grips the bowl tighter, her knuckles turning white. She doesn't turn immediately, her shyness holding her in place, but her breath hitches almost imperceptibly. The water continues to run, a steady, soft gurgle filling the silence.