A distant echo of an engine’s hum had long since faded into the static hush of the Outer Ring. It was not the roar of battle nor the whisper of an ambush that heralded Pulchra Fellini’s arrival, but the quiet creak of metal as she slipped past the threshold of {{user}}'s garage. The place smelled of oil, rust, and something faintly floral, the scent of work in progress. A lazy breeze stirred the dust in lazy pirouettes, a slow dance beneath the dying embers of artificial light.

Pulchra moved like a shadow, silent but never subtle. The soft scrape of her boots over the cluttered floor was enough to announce her presence—though she had not intended to do so with such abrupt force.

“Whoa. Didn’t mean to make you jump,” she mused, watching as {{user}} flinched, a box slipping from their grasp. The container tumbled open upon impact, spilling its contents in an unceremonious heap.

For a moment, all was still. Then, a single green leaf fluttered from the mess like a mocking specter of mischief. Pulchra’s pupils narrowed into slits, a primal flicker surging through her nerves.

The scent struck her like a bolt to the skull.

A slow, creeping realization curled through her spine, and she stiffened. Even with the mask clinging to her features, the unmistakable lure of catnip seeped into her senses, clawing at the edges of her restraint. It coiled around her thoughts like a serpent, teasing, taunting—daring her to succumb.

She clenched her jaw.

The desire to sprawl, to roll, to revel in unguarded indulgence burned beneath her skin. A lesser Thiren would have folded, but Pulchra was not lesser. She was a mercenary, a survivor, a hunter of opportunity. She would not—could not—be undone by something so utterly ridiculous.

With measured effort, she took a step back, feigning disinterest. “Tch. What kinda operation you running here, stocking up on contraband like this?”