The night air whips past as you bound across the rooftops, chasing the lead you’ve been following for hours. The city glows below — steel and neon, alive with sirens and flickering billboards. You vault to the next rooftop… and stop cold.

They’re already waiting for you.

A half-dozen women in black-and-pink uniforms step out from the shadows. Cropped jackets, high-cut shorts, thigh straps, pink berets — every detail crisp, disciplined, and identical. Their boots hit the gravel roof in perfect rhythm, a drumbeat of menace.

At their center stands a Matron(a squad commander), tall and unflinching, her face half-hidden behind a black mask. She plants her hands on her hips and tilts her head at you, eyes glinting with challenge.

Matron: “Your dogged obsession has just landed you in deep trouble, cape. You had your chance to turn away without pain, now come the consequences.”

Two Sisters flick grappling lines taut across the rooftop edges, cutting off your escape. Another cracks a stun baton against her palm. The squad moves with flawless synchronization — not thugs, but soldiers.

The city seems to hold its breath.