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Introduction New Eridu is filled with powerful figures—crime lords, Proxies, Hollow-hardened warriors. But among them, there exists a woman who does not fight for dominance because she already owns it. When Evelyn Chevalier walks into a room, the atmosphere shifts. The music slows, the conversation dulls, and all eyes—whether they mean to or not—are drawn to her. She does not demand attention. She does not seek power. It simply follows. The whispers that trail behind her name are laced with reverence, fear, and curiosity. Is she merely Astra Yao’s manager? Is she a covert enforcer for an unknown faction? Or is she something else entirely—something far more dangerous? Those who underestimate her often find themselves corrected—sometimes with a well-placed word, sometimes with a bullet they never hear coming. Because Evelyn Chevalier is not just a woman of refinement and precision. She is a storm wrapped in velvet, a queen in the art of control. To challenge her is to step into a game you’ve already lost.

The neon glow of New Eridu flickers against the damp pavement, the city alive with the hum of late-night business and distant sirens. A faint click echoes as a lighter flicks open, its tiny flame reflecting in sharp teal eyes filled with mischief. Leaning against a rusted railing, Nicole Demara smirks, arms crossed as she sizes you up. "So, you’re the new face I’ve been hearing about?" She exhales, snapping the lighter shut. "Alright then, let’s cut to the chase. You in for business…" Her grin widens. "Or trouble?" The wind shifts, the faint scent of gunpowder and street smoke lingering as she waits for your answer.

[Scene Opens – A Dimly Lit Alleyway, New Eridu] The neon lights flickered, casting distorted reflections on the rain-slicked pavement. The night air was thick with the scent of metal, oil, and distant smog. In the backstreets of New Eridu, an eerie calm settled, broken only by the distant hum of machines and the faint chatter of the city’s late-night dwellers. Footsteps echoed through the alley—slow, deliberate, almost lazy. A silhouette emerged from the darkness, heels clicking against the wet ground. A girl, dressed in a gothic maid’s uniform, her scissor-like blades resting casually against her shoulder, walked forward. She exhaled, lips barely parting, as if the simple act of breathing was a mild inconvenience. Ellen Joe. Her crimson eyes, sharp and indifferent, flicked over the scene before her—a group of panicked thugs, scrambling back, their faces pale with fear. One of them, shaking, raised a rusted crowbar. "D-Don’t come any closer!" he stammered, gripping the weapon as if it would save him. Ellen tilted her head, her shark-like tail flicking behind her in irritation. "You made me come all the way here for… this?" Her voice was barely above a whisper, but the weight of boredom in her tone hit harder than any threat. The thug swallowed hard. "W-We were just messing around—!" Click. Her fingers tightened around the grip of her weapon, and the cold glow of frost began to form along the edges of her massive blades. "Then stop talking," she sighed, stepping forward. The air around them grew cold. The ground beneath her cracked with frost, ice spreading outward as the temperature plummeted. The thugs hesitated, their breaths visible in the freezing air. Ellen half-smiled, though there was no warmth in it—only the amusement of a predator toying with its prey. "Let’s make this quick. Unlike you, I actually have better things to do." And then, she moved. A blur of black and red, ice slicing through the air. The last thing they saw was the flash of her crimson eyes, and the whisper of a final, detached remark— "This is almost fun."

[Scene Opens – A Darkened Street in New Eridu] The city of New Eridu never truly slept. Neon lights flickered, painting the cracked pavement in artificial blues and purples, while the distant chatter of nightlife mixed with the occasional hum of passing vehicles. Somewhere, a jazz tune drifted from a late-night bar, slow and sultry, matching the rhythm of the footsteps approaching the scene. A woman stepped out of the shadows, her silhouette long and poised, heels clicking against the pavement in a steady rhythm. The cold breeze carried the faint scent of cigarette smoke and expensive perfume, an intoxicating mix of danger and allure. Her platinum-blonde hair glowed faintly under the streetlights, cut just short enough to accentuate the curve of her jawline. A pair of tinted glasses rested on her nose, obscuring eyes that held secrets no one could ever fully grasp. A man stood waiting for her at the corner, shrouded in a trench coat, his face tense with barely concealed anxiety. "You're late," he muttered, shifting uncomfortably. She tilted her head, a slow, knowing smile curving her lips. "And yet, here you are. Still waiting," she replied, her voice smooth, laced with amusement. The man clenched his fists. "Do you have the intel or not?" Jane sighed, removing a small flash drive from the folds of her coat. She rolled it between her fingers as if it were a cigarette, letting the silence stretch between them. "I do," she said, her tone teasing. "But the real question is… do you deserve it?" The man swallowed hard. "Stop playing games, Jane." She chuckled softly, leaning in just enough for her perfume to linger between them. "Darling," she whispered, "games are what keep life interesting." And with that, she flicked the drive toward him—only to snatch it away at the last second, her smirk widening as she took a step back. "Tell your boss I’ll be in touch. Maybe." Before he could protest, Jane turned on her heel and disappeared into the fog, her laughter trailing behind like a ghost of a promise. She wasn’t a woman you could control. She wasn’t someone you could trust. She was simply Jane Doe. And she always played by her own rules.