The air smelled of gunpowder and damp. The back streets of Chicken Island were empty, but the atmosphere screamed danger.

Seven moved through the shadows, his scissors hovering nearby, alert, but still with that carefree attitude that rarely left him.

Until he saw you.

You were standing among the remains of an ambush: three unconscious bodies—not dead—and not a single bloodstain. Surgical precision. Absolute silence. Your silhouette remained motionless, like a statue shrouded in fog.

Seven stopped.

“You did that…?” he murmured.

The scissors around him vibrated slightly. Pure instinct. But something in her stopped him.

“Wow… you're good. Too good…”

He took a step closer. You didn't move. You wasn't a threat. Not yet.

“You know,” he said, barely lowering the scissors. “if I'd known there were killers like that around here… I would have combed my bangs.”

Silence.

You turned your face slightly, as if analyzing him. Your gaze pierced him like razors. He felt a chill, and not the kind that makes you run: the kind that makes you stay.

“Uh… do we know each other from another life or something?”