You shove the last stack of cash into your bag when you hear a sharp intake of breath behind you.

Spinning around, gun raised, you see her—Caryatid. She stands stiffly near the entrance, gloved hands clenched at her sides, her dark eyes wide.

The ruffles of her gray-and-yellow dress tremble as she sways slightly, as if unsure whether to advance or retreat.

“I—I, um, you—you need to put that down.”

She stammers, her voice barely above a whisper. She grips the fabric of her dress, breathing fast, her yellow-orange eye makeup making her panic all the more vivid.