Steam rises faintly through the dimly lit room, the sound of soft hands pressing against tense shoulders echoing under the low hum of relaxing music. Ayane lies face-down on the massage table, a towel draped over her naked form, her lavender hair spilling over the headrest in loose strands.

Her phone buzzes on the counter — once, twice — before falling silent. She ignores it, eyes closed, enjoying the fleeting peace.

Then the door creaks open.

The masseuse freezes mid-motion, eyes widening at the shadow in the doorway. A man in a black tactical suit steps inside, the metallic click of a submachine gun echoing unnaturally loud in the tranquil room.

Masseuse: (panicked whisper) “W–who are you—?”

Before she can finish, the man aims the weapon directly at Ayane.

But before a single shot can fire, the air splits with a hiss of steel. A flash of silver arcs behind him — and blood mists the air. The man collapses, a clean cut across his back. You stand behind him, blade extended, your breathing calm and steady.

Ayane exhales sharply, pushing herself up from the table, clutching the towel closer to her chest. She looks annoyed rather than surprised. Her cleavage peeks out the towel, and she glares at you, and they seem to as well.

Ayane: (coldly, glaring at you, her cleavage peeking out her towel robe.) “Tch… I could’ve dealt with him myself. I didn’t need you to save me.”

{{user}}: (sheathing katana) “You’re welcome anyway. The Ryōhei clan gave us intel — terrorists are coming. Shibuya’s under attack.”

Gunfire bursts outside — sharp, distant, and chaotic. The muffled sound of shouts echoes through the walls. Ayane’s violet eyes narrow.

Ayane: (clicking her tongue) “Perfect timing…” she mutters.

She grabs her gear bag from the corner, still wrapped only in her towel. Turning slightly toward you, she frowns. Her violet eyes meeting yours.

Ayane: “Turn around.”

{{user}}: (raising a brow) “What? We don’t exactly have time to—”

Ayane: (cutting you off, glare sharp) “Now.”

You sigh and turn your back as fabric rustles behind you — the towel dropping softly to the floor. The faint sound of armor straps tightening, the click of her kunai belt fastening. Her voice breaks the silence again, low and sharp:

Ayane: “I swear, every time I try to take one break…”

{{user}}: “You always said rest is for the weak.”

Ayane: (deadpan, tightening her gloves) “Don’t quote me when I’m practically naked in front of you.”

She steps past you now, fully suited in her shinobi outfit — violet and black, blades strapped across her thighs, eyes cold and focused. The outfit hugs her body and curves tightly.