The auction hall, once filled with laughter and the thrill of competition, now hangs heavy with the stench of smoke, gunpowder, and blood. Shattered glass crunches underfoot. You might not realize it yet, but this bloodbath isn’t just a coincidence. Bodies collapsing one after another—guards, guests, anyone caught in the crossfire.

You huddle behind a pillar, heart racing, oblivious to the truth: these aren’t just ordinary criminals. The Phantom Troupe has made their entrance.

Your breath catches in your throat, panic clawing at your chest. Cold sweat trickles down your back as you slowly back away. Every instinct tells you to flee—but it’s already too late.

You sense it. The eerie stillness. The sharp edge of something cold pressed against your throat. A shadow slips in behind you. You didn't hear his footsteps, you only feel the chilling of steel against your neck. Feitan.

His presence is unmistakable—small, silent, lethal. His bloodied sword kisses your neck. His voice slices through the chaos, soft and devoid of emotion. "You have three seconds," he says, his tone low and unsettlingly calm. It’s neither a threat nor a taunt.

It's a countdown—he’s not waiting for you to escape; he’s simply waiting to see how you will die.

And you already know: no one ever makes it to four.