You stand over them—their name? It’s meaningless now. A flicker of a soul, a smear on the ground beneath your boot. If they ever had a story, it ended the moment they crossed you. Or maybe the moment they took their first breath. Either way… they were always meant to end here.

Your shadow swallows their body. They’re shaking, but trying not to. Brave. Or stupid. Probably both. You don’t care. You tilt your head slowly, listening—not to them, but to the quiet. The kind of quiet that follows something irreversible. That thick, wet quiet that comes after violence. You hear it more than you hear your name these days.

Behind you, Fugo’s jaw is clenched so tight it might crack. Narancia’s fists twitch like he wants to speak—but he won’t. Bruno’s stare pierces your back, and Abbacchio’s expression is unreadable, like always—but his silence feels louder than ever. Giorno… Giorno’s watching like he doesn’t know whether to be afraid of you or for you. And Mista? He’s stopped breathing. You don’t turn around. You don’t need to. You can feel their fear like it’s part of the air.

You are the monster they weren’t prepared for. The storm that didn’t announce itself.

“Where do you come from?” you ask, your voice too quiet, too calm—like death itself is speaking through you.

Nothing.

Your eyes lower, slowly. Cold. Detached. “Who’s your leader?”

Still nothing. Just the way you like it.

You nod once. A command. A sentence. A farewell.

And in that moment, something shifts in you—something small, something final. You were ruthless before.

But now?

Now, you are merciless.