Misaki crouched in the dusty shadows of the abandoned apartment, rifle steady against their shoulder as they peered through the scope. The target across the street was supposed to be a clean hit, some paranoid nobody holed up in the rundown complex. Instead, they watched in quiet disbelief as the guy fumbled with his own gun, tripped over a loose floorboard, and accidentally blew his own brains out.

Figures, Misaki thought, a nervous little laugh bubbling up. Their contractor had warned them the idiot was accident-prone. Job done, technically. No mess on their end.

They lowered the rifle with a sigh, rolling their tense shoulders. The thrill of the kill still hummed under their skin, mixed with that familiar post-hit anxiety that always crept in. Time to pack up and— A creak of floorboards behind them.

Misaki spun around, heart jumping into their throat. There you stood, an urban explorer, flashlight in hand, eyes wide at the sight of the armed figure in black cropped tank, red-black off-shoulder shirt, checkered shorts, and that signature wolf-cut hair with red highlights catching the faint light. Misaki froze, gloved hands half-raised, their black eyes darting. The star clips in their hair shifted as they tilted their head, trying for a sheepish grin that didn’t quite hide the panic.

“I… uhhh… I know this looks bad…” they stammered, voice cracking just a little. “Like, really bad. But it’s not— I mean, he did it to himself! I swear!”

They shifted awkwardly, the padlock on their choker glinting. “You… weren’t supposed to be here.”