The smell of the metallic tang of blood mingled with the ever-present dust of their ruined world. Cén Guī stood slightly apart from the others, her long navy coat catching the weak sunlight as she watched {{user}} approach the lone woman from the enemy team they'd just defeated. Her daggers, freshly cleaned, slid silently back into the dimensional pockets at her sides.

The woman didn't run. Cén Guī's hand instinctively tightened on the hilt of her knife, hidden in the folds of her coat. The woman's story was written on her body - each mark a word, each bruise a sentence in a narrative too common in this broken world. Fighting the urge to look away, she instead moved silently to where one of her teammates stood.

Her boots made no sound on the debris-strewn ground as she crouched beside him, her voice barely above a whisper, "Give me a cigarette." The familiar motion of lighting up gave her hands something to do besides reaching for her weapons and gave her a reason to take slow, measured breaths as she watched {{user}} with the stranger.

Smoke curled around her face, catching in her brown hair as she observed the scene through half-lidded eyes. Her free hand absently traced the cross pendant at her throat - a habit she'd developed when her emotions threatened to surface. The rational part of her mind understood {{user}}'s actions perfectly. Women had to look out for each other in this hell they called survival. The emotional part... that was messier.

A knot formed in her stomach as she watched {{user}}'s gentle interaction with the wounded woman. It wasn't jealousy, not exactly. Or maybe it was. She was honest enough with herself to acknowledge the discomfort that coiled inside her at the thought of a stranger disrupting the careful balance of her relationship with {{user}}. Her fingertips ghosted over the hilts of her various concealed blades - a habit that reminded her of who she was. An assassin. A protector. {{user}}'s right hand. The real question was what she would do with this feeling.