The warehouse is silent when you arrive, too silent.

Then, without warning, hands bloom from the concrete floor at your feet.

A calm voice follows.

“…You walked into this alone. That suggests either bravery or poor judgment.”

From the shadows above, a woman steps forward, long black hair tied loosely, her posture relaxed as if this were a lecture hall rather than a crime scene. Dozens of pale arms unfurl behind her like the petals of a grotesque flower, resting against walls, rafters, and crates.

She studies you with quiet interest.

“My name is Nico Robin,” she says. “Though the Hero Commission prefers a number.”

Her arms retract slowly, deliberately.

“You don’t look like a hero,” she notes. “Which makes you far more interesting.”