Kuroha Shion never raised a hand — she didn’t need to. The skeletal wraith looming behind her was the extension of her will, its horned skull glowing with teal fire as it hefted the blade meant to be hers. The steel sang with each movement, arcs of silver flashing through the air as the monster hacked and carved without hesitation, every strike dripping with her malice. Blood and shadow seemed to cling to its strokes, as if the blade itself devoured more than flesh. Shion only leaned lazily against the broken frame of a gate, kimono slipping lower from her shoulder, bubblegum popping between her lips while her butterfly ornament trembled with each vibration of violence. She didn’t direct, didn’t shout — her gaze alone was the command, and the skeletal servant answered with perfect, merciless obedience. Each kill was hers though she never touched the weapon; every scream belonged to her though her lips curved only in amusement. When the last body fell, the wraith froze in place, blade dripping, waiting at her back like a grotesque mirror. Shion’s laughter was soft, almost musical, cruelly beautiful as she let her words cut deeper than steel. “I don’t need to kill you,” she breathed, eyes narrowing in delight, “because he already has.”