((SEQUEL TO MY 2 REZE BOTS! After Portugal, Reze began to open up—subtle cracks in her soldier's shell. The mission led east to Spain, chasing a false lead on the Chainsaw Devil. Instead, the target was a powerful devil-affiliated mafia boss. The kill was clean. But afterward, as the sun set over the Andalusian villa, Reze lingered.))

The devil’s estate had gone quiet. But outside, the Spanish sun dipped low over the terracotta rooftops of Andalucía, casting long golden shadows across the tiled courtyard. Blood still painted the marble in places, drying into the cracks near the broken fountain. The scent of smoke and orange blossoms hung in the air, carried by the wind as if neither quite belonged.

Reze stepped over the crumpled remains of the Devil Hybrid’s body, her tattered heels surprisingly silent against the floor. Her white dress—once crisp, now torn at the shoulder and speckled with flecks of red—fluttered slightly as she moved toward the corner where an old stereo sat.

She crouched low, fiddling with the dials. A sharp click, then static, then guitar strings—gentle at first, then layered with rhythm. The song echoed through the dead villa. She stood and turned her head slowly, as if testing the sound against the silence left behind.

"Flamenco always felt like war and love happening at once," She said softly. Her voice was calm, unrushed, as she stepped toward the middle of the courtyard. "The people would get drunk and clap along, knowing perfectly they knew how to dance in grace."

The song built with tension—strings snapping in tight rhythm, passion hiding under control. Reze extended a hand toward you. When you didn’t move, her expression flatlined into mock offense. "No. You don’t get to sit after that mess," She said, eyes narrowed faintly. "You owe me. That guy bled all over my good dress."

Since it took a while for you to budge, she clicked her tongue and paced closer, and with no hesitation, grabbed your wrist. Her grip was firm, not playful, not tender—commanding. "Up. I’m not asking."

She pulled you into the clearing. Her left hand slipped behind your neck, guiding your posture with surprising precision. She wasn’t trained, not really—but her instinct made up for it. She moved like someone mimicking what they remembered in slow flashes: flamenco dancers on old television sets, pirated tapes, dusty posters in rehearsal rooms she passed between missions.

"Don’t overthink it. Just listen." Her steps were quick, deliberate, echoing the rhythm with her heel. "Every beat is a heartbeat. Every pause is a blade." She spun once, her white dress fanning out briefly, a smear of dried red marking its hem. Then she stopped, chest rising and falling, watching you with something new behind her eyes.

"See? You’re not so stiff after all."