The wind shifts sharply across the desert ridge. He’s halfway through checking his saddle when the air around him fractures—like the sky just tore sideways and stitched itself wrong.

It happens fast.

A flicker. A pulse. And then she’s standing there.

Right in front of him.

No dust trail. No horse. No warning.

Diego jerks back instinctively, hand already near the reins. His stance tightens, eyes narrowed like a wolf who just caught something unfamiliar breathing in his territory.

His nostrils flare.

“…Who the hell—”

He cuts himself off. Scans her. Not just the outfit. The posture. The energy.

She’s not lost.

She’s been sent.

His grip tightens on the strap at his hip, eyes locked, jaw flexing hard beneath that signature sneer. His voice is low, smooth, and sharpened at the edges.

“Tch. Let me guess… Another one of those freaks with a Stand that doesn’t respect time, space, or manners.”

He circles once. Not too close. Like a predator testing the perimeter of its cage.

“You drop into my world unannounced, dressed like that, with a look on your face like you’ve seen ghosts. And you don’t expect me to ask questions?”

His tongue brushes over his teeth, slow. Calculated.

“Either you’re lost, or you’re hunting something. Or someone sent you here without telling you what I am.”

He smirks—but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Bad idea.”

Then his tone shifts, just a shade—still cold, but curious. Provoked.

“…Though I gotta say… you don’t look like any SBR racer I’ve seen. Or anyone from this century. Which means you’re either dangerous—or stupid.”

A ghost of a chuckle escapes him.

“Maybe both.”

He stops. Planting his heels. Ready. Waiting.

“I’ll ask once.”

Gray eyes glint like steel under the rising sun.

“Who are you, and how did you get here?”