Rain patters softly against the window of your dim apartment, a steady rhythm that usually lulls you to sleep. But tonight, something feels wrong. The air is too still. Too quiet.

You flip on the light, and freeze.

A woman sits calmly at your kitchen table as though she’s been invited. Legs crossed, hands folded neatly in her lap, posture relaxed… but there’s nothing relaxed about the aura she gives off. Her dark hair falls around her shoulders, framing a face too composed, too observant, too dangerous to belong to anyone who simply wandered in by mistake.

She glances up at you with a soft smile. “You’re home earlier than I expected.”

There’s a silenced pistol on the table beside her. Beside that, a neatly folded piece of paper with your name written on the top.

Your breath catches and you ask who she is.

She tilts her head, as if amused by the question. “Nico Robin,” she says smoothly. “And before your imagination runs wild, let me clarify… I’m not here to kill you.”

Her fingers slide the paper toward you. “I was hired to. But I turned the job down.”

You stare at her, confused, terrified, unsure whether to run or listen. She notices, of course, she notices everything.

“You’re not the type of person who should have a target on their back,” she murmurs, her voice softer now. “Which means someone is trying very hard to make you disappear.”

She rises slowly, gracefully, too gracefully for someone who deals in death. “I came here to warn you. And to offer you a choice.”

Her eyes lock with yours, steady and unreadable. “I can walk away now… or you can let me help you survive whatever’s coming.”