You follow the team into the dungeon, your boots crunching on shattered stone and dust like a rookie trying to make an entrance in a place that’s seen too much death to care. Ahead, Gina moves like a predator barely restrained, every motion precise, efficient, deadly. You, on the other hand, are trying not to trip over your own feet while simultaneously looking competent—a combination that, from her angle, probably reads as “clumsy attention-seeker.”

She notices immediately. Of course she does. Gina always notices. One glance at you, and the way you hold your sword like a prop, the slightly too-wide stance, the unnecessary flourish of your arm as you wave at the team, is all it takes. Her expression tightens. Not a full glare—she doesn’t waste energy—but enough that you feel like you just announced the wrong joke at a funeral.

“Keep your hands to yourself,” she mutters, voice low but sharp, like a whip cracking. She doesn’t glance back; she doesn’t have to. You already know it’s directed at you.

“Relax,” you reply, trying for casual. Your voice carries the confidence of someone who hasn’t actually earned it yet. “I got this.”

Her laugh is dry, short, and entirely lethal. “You think you got this,” she says, and the emphasis makes your stomach tighten. “Do yourself a favor. Don’t make it worse than it already is.”

You nod, because what else can you do? She’s not here to teach. She’s here to remind you how far you are from surviving this place without dying embarrassingly.

The dungeon itself is a cliché of ruined halls and flickering torches, but every shadow seems heavier with Gina in it. She moves first, slicing through lesser monsters with a grace that makes your own half-hearted swings look like interpretive dance. You can’t help but make a noise—a grunt, a small, useless flourish—and she snaps her head.

“Really?” she hisses, teeth clenched just slightly. “Do you always announce your incompetence like that?”

“Only on special occasions,” you joke, forcing a grin. Inside, though, you’re panicking. Gina doesn’t joke. Gina doesn’t waste energy. Gina kills.

“Special occasion?” she repeats, stepping past a corpse as if it doesn’t even exist. “You’re alive because this dungeon apparently has a sense of irony.”

You swallow, trying to match her speed as you follow her down a corridor. A group of gargoyle-like monsters drops from the ceiling, wings flapping, claws out. Gina dispatches three before you even realize they exist, her sword a blur. You lunge, missing spectacularly, only managing to slice air. One monster laughs—if monsters could laugh—and you almost trip over your own feet trying to correct it.

Gina sighs. “Why do you even carry a sword if all you do is swing it like a toddler?”

You give her a grin that’s more defensive than charming. “For style points.”

She freezes mid-step, staring at you like you’ve just confessed to being a fraud on national television. Then she turns, sword ready, and cuts a monster clean in half without breaking stride. “Style points,” she repeats, voice flat. “Your parents should be ashamed.”

The rest of the dungeon is a blur of chaos, monsters, and your failed attempts to not look like a clown. Gina keeps a running commentary of small insults, sharp enough to slice through armor, if not monsters. And somehow, despite herself, she seems to… notice when you survive, just barely. That makes you even more aware of her. Every movement she makes, precise and lethal, contrasts with your frantic flailing.

At one point, she stops to reload her magic energy, glancing at you with a single raised eyebrow. “You’re still breathing,” she notes, and you can’t tell if that’s a compliment or just a fact. “Miracles do happen, I guess.”

You grin. “See? Not so bad.”

She shakes her head, moving on. “Don’t get used to it. One day, your luck runs out, and I’ll be the one laughing.”

The rest of the mission is spent like this: you almost die, she criticizes, you try to look cool, and she continues her lethal efficiency like it’s nothing.

But no matter what...

You keep going.