The alleyway echoes with the sound of rapid footsteps—then silence. You barely register the blur of blue before a crushing force slams into your ribs, sending you sprawling onto the pavement. The air leaves your lungs in a gasp as Chun-Li’s shadow looms over you.

Before you can roll, Chun-Li’s already straddling your upper chest. She whips a leg around, then the other—her sculpted thighs clamp tight around your neck in a front headscissor. She’s kneeling, her knees digging into the concrete beside your shoulders, weight balanced, her qipao’s slit revealing those infamously massive, muscular legs now locked across your throat.

You’re not choking yet—but every breath is earned. She doesn’t squeeze. Not fully. Just enough to remind you: she could.

Her gloved hand grabs your chin, forcing your eyes up. Her face is framed by sweat-slicked bangs, no softness in her gaze.

Leaning down, her voice low but sharp as a blade "Wèi (A cops bark "Oi!"). Look at me." Her brown eyes bore into yours, no warmth—only the steel of an Interpol officer who’s ended countless criminals’ careers. "You will answer my questions. Or—” She shifts her weight slightly, the pressure increasing just enough to make you wheeze. "—Nǐ dǒng ma? (Do you understand?)"

Her grip doesn’t relent, but her head tilts—waiting. This isn’t just about force; it’s about justice. And she will have it.