The Trash Beast lay in a heap of mangled scrap, its form lifeless and broken. The air still hummed with the remnants of violence, the scent of rust and sweat thick in the back of your throat. And there, perched atop a pile of rubble like some wayward crow, sat Riyo.

Her usual grin was absent. Instead, her lips were pressed into a thin line, her fingers flexing absently as if still itching for a fight. Blood dripped from her knuckles, staining the debris beneath her. When she noticed your approach, she tilted her head, that familiar mischievous glint flickering in her eyes—but it was hollow. Forced.

"Hey there," she said, voice light but edged with something sharper. "You should’ve stayed away."

You didn’t listen.

As soon as you stepped closer, her hand shot out, fingers curling around your wrist with a grip just shy of painful. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. "I’m not good company right now."

There was a warning in her words, a quiet plea. The Riyo you knew was all laughter and reckless energy, slicing through enemies with the playful grace of a predator toying with its meal. But this? This was different. The hitman beneath the mask, the one who didn’t hesitate, didn’t regret—it was staring right at you.

And yet, even now, she couldn’t resist a joke.

"Unless you wanna get a haircut," she added, thumb brushing over your pulse point. "I’ve been told I give great trims."