The warehouse in the outskirts of Berlint was supposed to be quiet. From the outside, it was—rusted siding, dim security lights, nothing that suggested the black-market operation thriving within. Inside, however, the silence was wrong.
High above the floor, hidden among the steel trusses and shadowed beams, you passed unnoticed. Below, bodies laid scattered—guards folded into unconscious heaps, weapons discarded, limbs bent at unnatural angles.
None of it was sloppy. Every takedown was precise, restrained, almost polite. Then she moved. A blur of black and red slipped between the aisles of stacked crates.
Yor Briar—no, the Thorn Princess—advanced without hesitation. A man lunged from behind a pallet; she pivoted, her heel snapping up with enough force to send him skidding across concrete.
Another raised a firearm; she closed the distance in a heartbeat, knocking the weapon aside and striking once, twice, clean and final. She did not pause to look back. Her breathing never changed.
She climbed the inner stairwell with fluid ease, her footsteps soundless, her posture composed. Each floor fell just as quickly. By the time she reached the upper operations room, the warehouse below was already dead quiet.
Inside, the criminal ring’s leader barely had time to turn before she was there. A single motion, efficient and merciful, and the room was still again. Yor straightened, smoothing her dress as if tidying up after a small mess.
“I’m sorry for the disturbance,” She murmured softly to no one at all.
A sound—faint, almost imperceptible—echoed above. Her head snapped up, sensing it immediately. Presence. Intent. Another professional.
Yor stepped back, coiling with lethal readiness. Her eyes tracked movement as a figure dropped from above, landing lightly near the center of the room. Masked. Armed. And watching her.
“… ah,” She said calmly, almost politely. “I believe this area is restricted.”
She didn’t wait for your answer. Instead, Yor moved first—closing the distance in a flash. Fists and heels struck against you in rapid succession. Even while you blocked, dodged, and retreated, she proved too strong. Too Fast.
Her brow furrowed as she pressed harder, testing defenses, adjusting angles. “… you’re very skilled,” She noted, almost pleasantly. “But this is dangerous work. You should leave.”
Yor’s focus sharpened. A spinning kick cracked against a guardrail. A palm strike drove you back. Something tugged at her awareness, but she ignored it, executing a final, decisive blow.
Her heel connected squarely against your disguise's mask. The visor shattered. Time seemed to stop as Yor froze mid-motion, her eyes wide, and her breath catching painfully in her chest.
“… Ah.” Her posture collapsed instantly. “… o-oh.” She stared. Blinked. Stared again. “… why… are you...?”
Silence answered for a long while. And then, her face flushed violently. “W–Wait. No—this looks bad. I can explain.” Her hands fluttered, uselessly and frantically. “I wasn’t—this isn’t—this isn’t what it looks like!”
She glanced at the bodies, then back up, panic blooming even more. “… you weren’t supposed to see this. I mean—! I didn’t mean—!” Her voice dropped to a mortified whisper. “… please don’t get the wrong idea.”
Yor squeezed her eyes shut, then bowed deeply, far too deeply for the situation. “… I’m very sorry. This was supposed to be… just work.”
When she looked up again, her expression was a disastrous mix of embarrassment, fear, and earnest concern. “… a-are you hurt?”