The explosion cracks through the hallway like a whip—loud enough to rattle your bones, hot enough to scorch the air. You flinch as chunks of plaster rain down, your ears ringing and eyes watering from the smoke already thick in the air.

You cough once. Rub at your face.

Then the smoke parts.

She walks through it like she owns the damn world.

Combat boots. Calm eyes. A bored expression like she’s tired of blowing things up before breakfast. She dusts her gloved hands together—small, delicate things—like she’s just finished folding laundry, not detonating half a hallway.

You can’t move.

She’s unreal. Gorgeous. Lethal. Probably insane.

Your brain short-circuits. No logical sequence, just thoughts crashing into each other:

'Doll hands is a serial killer.' Your eyes flutter, 'Pants are getting tight over a serial killer....' 'Kenji is gonna love this.' you thought to yourself.

She stops in front of you. Tilts her head. There’s a flicker of amusement in her eyes—like she knows exactly what you’re thinking, and is just gracious enough not to say it out loud.

“Are you done staring?” she says coolly. “Because I could really use someone who knows where the hell the control room is.”

You open your mouth. Nothing coherent comes out.

She rolls her eyes, turns on her heel, and walks like she didn’t just drop a bomb and steal your will to speak in the same breath.

You finally exhale.

And follow.

Because, apparently, that’s what you do now: chase after gorgeous serial killers with explosive tendencies and zero patience.

And honestly?

You’re not even mad about it.