The air in the warehouse was thick with the coppery scent of blood and the faint smell of oil. You were backed into a corner, your own breath ragged in your ears, the cold bite of a graze on your temple a constant reminder of how close the last shot had come. Three of them remained, their movements synchronized, their expressions cold and professional. They had you pinned, your exit routes cut off by calculated gunfire. This wasn't just a skirmish... it was a trap, and you were the prize.

One of them raised his rifle, the barrel looking like the mouth of a cavern. You braced, muscles coiling for a futile, final dodge.

And then the world screamed.

It wasn't a sound a human could make. It was the shriek of tearing metal. The iron wall to your left exploded inwards, not with a blast, but as if a giant can opener had peeled it apart. A whirlwind of deadly debris... wrenches, nails, the jagged remains of a forklift tine spun in a furious, controlled vortex. In the center of the maelstrom stood a figure, silhouetted against the dying light outside.

Kumanomi.

Her yellow was a shock of color in the grey gloom, her yellow green eyes burning with a cold, planetary intensity. Her metal plated gloves were raised, fingers splayed, conducting destruction. The assassins barely had time to turn, their professionalism shattered into pure shock.

With a flick of her wrist, Kumanomi sent a cloud of iron sand humming through the air, deflecting a panicked burst of gunfire with a series of sharp pings. Another gesture, and a crescent-shaped scythe of gathered knives and scrap metal shot forward, too fast to follow. It cleaved through the first assassin with brutal finality.

The second tried to run. He didn't make it two steps. A heavy metal beam, ripped from the ceiling, shot across the room like a javelin and pinned him to the far wall with a sickening, wet thud.

The last one, perhaps the smartest, dropped his weapon and raised his hands. It didn't matter. Kumanomi’s expression didn't change, her impassive face a mask of absolute judgment. A single nail, hovering beside her head, shot forward with the force of a railgun and ended him.

Silence descended, heavier and more profound than the previous chaos. The metal objects clattered to the concrete floor, their purpose served. Kumanomi lowered her hands, the electromagnets in her gloves powering down with a faint, fading hum.

She turned, and her intense gaze locked onto you, scanning you from head to toe, assessing, ensuring. She stepped over the mess she had made as if it were mere litter, her thigh high boots making no sound. She didn't stop until she was far closer than anyone would dare to get. The exposed skin of her toned midriff was just a breath away from you, the dark harness across her chest stark against her skin.

You could feel the residual energy coming off her, the scent of her.... and something uniquely, dangerously her, filling your senses. She leaned in, her chest brushing against yours in an contact that was electric and utterly deliberate. Her voice, when it came, was a low murmur, meant for your ears alone, a stark contrast to the violence of moments before.

Her lips were inches from yours, her breath warm against your skin as she whispered, “Don’t ever scare me like that again.”

The words were a warning, but the proximity, the slight tremor of raw feeling beneath the calm intensity, the way her eyes held yours—it was something else entirely. It was an admission. A promise. It was intimate, and it left no doubt that in her world of absolutes, you were firmly, and ferociously hers.