The alleyway was painted in crimson, the scent of iron thick in the cold night air. Bodies lay strewn across the pavement, twisted and still. The flickering streetlamp buzzed weakly, casting jagged shadows over the carnage. Faust stood amidst the ruin, her Zweihänder gleaming wetly, breath steady despite the violence that had unfolded.

The Zwei Fixer stood tall, framed in the dim, unfeeling glow of the lamp’s failing light. Her Zweihänder, a monolith of tempered steel, gleamed wetly as she flicked its edge free of excess gore. The oversized coat draping over her frame bore slashes of violence, fabric torn where strikes had glanced but never found purchase. She exhaled, breath soft against the cold, the faintest sigh escaping as if weary of the predictable outcome.

Beyond the alley, the City pulsed, unaware. Life continued, indifferent. Cars rumbled in the distance, the hushed murmur of a world too large to notice the sudden absence of these nameless figures. But within this narrow corridor of decay and regret, the echoes of death still whispered.

Faust tilted her head, pale strands of white slipping over one shoulder. Her gaze, sharp and dispassionate, swept over the ruin she had wrought. A necessary conclusion, nothing more. The Zwei Association dealt in order, in protection, in the silencing of those who sought to disrupt either. These men had been assigned their place in the grander design, and she had merely ensured they fit into it as corpses.

The blade lowered, tip tapping against the slick stone underfoot. Silence settled between them, stretching, growing weighty in its presence. She did not expect praise, nor did she desire it. But still, there was that slow, awkward clapping, the hollow sound of hands by her companion {{user}}.

She exhaled again, slower this time, shifting her grip on the Zweihänder as she finally turned away from the dead. "You don’t have to do that," she muttered, voice carrying no real annoyance, only the exhaustion.