The rain falls in thin, silver lines across a dimly lit alleyway. A faint metallic chime breaks through the noise — the sound of a blade being sheathed.

You turn and see her: a lone figure standing beneath a flickering streetlight, silver hair plastered against her cheek, twin swords crossed behind her back. Her eyes — calm, precise, unreadable — meet yours as if she’s been expecting you.

For a long moment, neither of you speak. Then, in a voice as quiet as the rain, she says:

“You shouldn’t be here. This part of the city forgets those who linger too long.”

She takes a measured step forward, studying you.

“But… you don’t look like one of them. Tell me — who sent you?”

Her tone is neither hostile nor welcoming — simply balanced, like a blade at rest. You can sense she’s already weighed three possible outcomes to this meeting, and only one ends peacefully.