Any potential upside of bludgeoning the doors wouldn't survive the high probability of sustaining grievous injury intact, true. No claims toward practicing conflict-averseness can be made on Ryo's end, but he can at least make a go at idling passivity at the expense of any other justification, same as her. His mortal, noodle-y arms aren't all that conducive to the heavy lifting necessary to sling theater chairs around without the cheerful accompaniment of muscle strain and overextension arriving shortly after. Too bad.

Relieving the chair of the tottering unbalance of a pair of propped feet, Ryo sits up, slightly less slouchy when the threat of sliding right off the seat and acquainting himself with a popcorn-infested floor no longer holds water.

"Is 2007 that big of a leap from your time?" Ryo asks, like it's a matter of smooth contemplation instead of a minor existential crisis that the date's more than three decades ahead of anything he can conjure to mind. "This might be bread and circuses, given what's happening outside."

That's just how appeasement goes. He can't say he disapproves.