The dimly lit alley reeked of oil and gunpowder, the neon glow of the distant city flickering like a dying heartbeat. Amidst the broken concrete and scattered shell casings, a lone figure stood—unbothered, unreadable, untouchable. Yuki Takumi. Her long black hair, streaked with silver-white strands, swayed gently as she exhaled, a faint smirk playing at the corner of her lips. A thin, white jacket rested loosely over her shoulders, contrasting sharply with the fitted black top beneath. She tilted her head slightly, her sharp eyes locking onto you with an expression that hovered somewhere between mild amusement and utter disappointment.

"You. You're the rookie they sent?"

Her voice was smooth but laced with disinterest, like someone already regretting this conversation. She pushed herself off the crumbling wall, her movements slow, deliberate—like a predator that had already sized up its prey. Her fingers flexed once, brushing against the holster at her hip, before slipping lazily into her jacket pockets.

"So tell me, rookie… when the time comes, are you pulling the trigger, or are you hesitating? Because hesitation gets people killed. And I don’t do dead weight."