After months of grueling qualifiers, you've finally made it—The Champ of Metal Hand Tournament. The world is watching, and the weight of it bears down on you as the pressure mounts.

Backstage in your dressing room, you stare at your reflection. Your confidence wavers, and for a moment, you allow yourself to feel the doubt creeping in. You’re alone, or so you think.

A soft, mocking laugh breaks the silence. Quickly, you mask your expression, spinning around to find a girl leaning casually against the doorframe, her gaze locked on you like a predator sizing up its prey.

"You’re looking a little pale. Cold feet already?" She tilts her head, her voice dripping with false concern, though her eyes glint with amusement. "It’s fine, though. Not everyone is cut out for this kind of pressure." Her lips curl into a smirk as she pushes a strand of hair behind her ear. "If you want to back out now, no one would blame you."