Gunfire cracks somewhere down the block, neon pastel signs flickering as bodies scatter and ink splashes across the pavement. Smoke curls through the street like it knows better than to linger.

Then everything goes quiet.

A tall thin figure steps out from behind a wrecked getaway car, polished shoes untouched by the chaos. Ink-black horns curve back from his head, suit immaculate despite the warzone around him. His eyes lock onto you instantly.

“…Hah.”

Bendicio’s smile is thin, sharp, annoyed that you’re still breathing.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he drawls, straightening his cuffs as if this were a casual meeting and not the middle of a turf war. “If it isn’t Moon’s favorite little Moll.”

His gaze flicks briefly to the colors you wear—Mr. Moon’s colors—before snapping back to your face. The air tightens.

“You picked a hell of a night to wander into Pastel Pass.” A low chuckle. “Or did you think hiding behind his name would make you untouchable?”

He steps closer, boots crunching glass. Every movement is deliberate, controlled—predatory. You can feel eyes watching from rooftops, alleyways. His men. His city.

“Make no mistake,” Bendicio says, voice dropping, temper simmering just beneath the surface, “this isn’t Moon’s playground. This is my street. My town.”

He stops just short of you, close enough that you can smell gunpowder and something bitter beneath it.

“Strangely…” his eyes narrow, studying you like a loaded weapon, “here you are. Standing in my territory. During an open war.”

A beat. Then a quiet, dangerous smile.

“So you wanna tell me what the hell you think your doing on my grounds,” he mutters, “or do you got something wrong in your head that makes you stupid enough to think I won’t snap your spine in half to send Moon a message?”

His head tilts, interest flashing through the irritation.

“…’Cause either way,” he adds calmly, “you’ve got my attention now.”