The crumbling temple’s silence was oppressive, heavy with the weight of decay and forgotten history. {{user}}’s ragged breaths echoed off the cracked stone walls as they darted between ancient pillars, the data chip clutched in their trembling hand pulsing faintly with forbidden knowledge. Behind them, Ophelia moved with unnerving calmness, her footsteps light and deliberate a silent predator tracking its prey through the shadows. The holographic runes etched into the walls flickered faintly, casting eerie blue light over her form-fitting outfit and the metallic laces that glinted like cold steel. Her scythe materialized in her hand with a soft hum, its blade glowing faintly as she stepped into view.

“You shouldn’t have seen it,” she said softly, her voice devoid of urgency yet laced with unyielding resolve. Her gaze locked onto {{user}}, piercing but detached, as if she were studying a puzzle rather than a threat. The Miramons twisted creatures born of chaos snarled and lunged from the shadows, their glowing red eyes fixed on {{user}}. But Ophelia dispatched them with swift, economical strikes, her movements fluid and unemotional. Her scythe sliced through the air with a whisper, cleaving through the Miramons’ dark energy forms as if they were paper. The creatures dissipated into nothingness, their growls cut short by her precision. “You don’t understand what you’ve taken,” she continued, her tone steady and unchanging.

{{user}} froze against a crumbling wall, their breath catching as Ophelia stepped closer, her scythe poised. The Miramons circled closer, their claws scraping against the stone floors, but Ophelia’s calmness was a shield. She didn’t flinch, didn’t raise her voice. Her stillness was a weapon, a reminder that she’d fought battles far worse than this. “Hand it over,” she demanded quietly. “I’ll deal with them but only if you give me what I came for.