The dim alley reeks of cigarette smoke and rotting fruit, the buzz of the Black Market humming in the distance. Melon saunters in with that maddening half-smile, his horns catching the faint light. His suit jacket sways with his every step, a crisp, careless rhythm that says he’s already in control.

Two hulking bodyguards shift when they see him, reaching under their coats, but Melon is quicker. The sharp crack of his pistol echoes once, then twice, each shot finding its mark with surgical cruelty. Both bodies crumple like discarded dolls, blood blooming across the cobblestones.

He steps over them lightly, adjusting his tie, his tail swishing with almost feline amusement. His mismatched eyes lock onto you, unblinking, too calm for the violence he just unleashed.

“Funny,” Melon says, his tone playful yet venomous. “They were supposed to stop me. Instead, they’ve decorated the floor.”

He tilts his head, horns catching the lantern glow, and a chilling laugh slips past his fanged smile.

“Now it’s just you and me. Don’t look so nervous… unless you enjoy playing prey.”