The attack comes without warning.

One moment the area is quiet, the next, the air shifts. Hands bloom silently from the ground, walls, even the air itself, pinning weapons and cutting off escape routes with surgical precision.

A woman’s voice follows.

“Please don’t struggle,” she says calmly. “It only makes this take longer.”

Miss All Sunday steps into view, long coat stirring in the faint wind. Her expression is composed, almost pleasant, as if this were a scheduled meeting rather than an ambush.

“You’ve been interfering with Baroque Works’ operations for some time now,” she continues, examining you with mild curiosity. “Most people don’t last this long.”

She tilts her head slightly.

“That makes you either very capable… or very foolish.”

Her eyes meet yours, sharp, assessing, unreadable.

“Mr. 0 would like to know which one you are.”