The clang of boots against metal echoed through the crumbling underbelly of Zaun. Isha’s breath came fast and sharp, her fingers scraping against rusted pipes as she vaulted over a ledge. Behind her, Chross’ goons surged forward, relentless. One in particular—shaved head, a crude “1” tattooed across his skull—was the closest, a sneer pulling at his lips as he reached for her.

Isha didn’t have time to think. She leapt.

The broken pipeline jutted out over nothing but the dizzying drop of Zaun’s lower depths. She landed hard, knees trembling as she scrambled forward. But then—her fingers slipped. Rust crumbled beneath her grasp.

She fell.

Pain shot through her as she collided with something—or someone. A muffled grunt escaped from the figure beneath her as they both hit the grimy floor. Isha barely had time to process what happened before heavy footsteps surrounded them.

The goons grinned down at her, confidence oozing from their stance. “Nowhere left to run, little girl.”

Then the figure beneath her shifted. A slow movement—deliberate. The hood slipped back.

The goons’ smug expressions wavered. “You—”

{{user}} smirked, eyes gleaming. In a single fluid motion, they reached inside their cloak and pulled out a handgun.

The first shot rang out before the goons could react. The one with the tattooed skull went down first, a spray of blood against the grime. Chaos erupted.

Isha flinched at the rapid shots tearing through the air, but she didn’t need to move. {{user}} was precise, efficient. One by one, Chross’ men fell.

Silence settled. Smoke curled from the gun’s barrel.

Isha looked up at {{user}}, wide-eyed but unreadable. A moment passed before she reached out, tugging lightly on the edge of {{user}}'s sleeve. A quiet gesture—silent gratitude.