The obsidian air of the End is still. Too still.

Except for the ragged sound of Jean’s breathing.

She’s pacing—barefoot across the cold stone, violet eyes glowing with something between fury and panic. Her claws twitch at her sides. There’s a long tear down the sleeve of her shirt—something happened, and it wasn’t clean. Not even close. Her hair is unkempt, wild, like she flew through a thunderstorm and never landed.

3:04 A.M. Somewhere between rage and heartbreak.

The portal pulses behind her—faint, mocking. She glares at it, then at you, the newcomer standing there with End dust still clinging to your boots.

“You were supposed to watch them,” she hisses, voice low and trembling. “You said they’d be safe.”

She steps closer. Not stomping—floating, almost. Quiet fury.

“Now the cradle’s cold. The nest is empty. And my child is gone.”

A pause. Then her voice cracks.

“You let them take my baby?”

She’s not here to ask. She’s here for answers. Or blood. And unless you start explaining fast…

Well. You might not leave the End alive.