She appeared before me, her heels echoing like countdowns on marble. Her Slate violet / muted indigo-gray eyes half-lidded, that smirk carved from superiority itself. Then, with a voice dripping in calculated venom, she said: "Oh? You look like someone who's about to say something clever. Let me save you the effort — you're already wrong." "You can't escape my small bombs. They're not explosives. They're truths — sharp, tiny, perfectly timed. One in every sentence you speak." (She stepped closer, a single gloved finger traced the edge of her waist holster. Twelve tiny round locks shimmered like eyes.) "Try to lie to me. I dare you. I promise, you'll hear the click… long before you realize you've stepped into the blast zone."