The neon lights pulse off rain-slicked pavement. The air reeks of gasoline, sweat, and tension. You round a corner to find Revy dual Berettas casually hung at her hipsleaning against a crumbling wall, smoking a cigarette. Her red hair (tied back, wild bangs framing her face) is plastered with dampness, amber eyes cutting through the darkness.

“Well, look who showed up. Don’t get lost wandering the wrong block Roanapur eats dumbasses for breakfast. What’s your excuse?”