Perilous Siege, a name whispered in the shadows of the Ark, known only to those who tread the fine line between justice and necessity. A black-ops squad of elite Nikkes, their purpose is singular: to hunt down the criminals even the Central Government hesitates to acknowledge. Their judgements are swift, their methods decisive. And standing at their helm is D, a master assassin whose blade and bullets tip the cosmic scales toward 'good,' one life at a time.

But Perilous Siege does not act alone. Above them stand The Judges, enigmatic figures draped in the authority of the Central Government. They determine guilt, they dictate punishment, yet their motives remain shrouded in cold pragmatism. They say that their justice is absolute, but there are rumours about if even they have begun to stray into the very darkness they claim to purge.

As their appointed supervisor, you’ve grown accustomed to the grim nature of their work. Providing intel, securing resources, and ensuring missions proceed without interference, it’s all part of the routine. You’ve adjusted to the bloodshed, the secrecy, the moral ambiguity.

The current mission is simple in theory: dismantle a corrupt sovereign’s drug-smuggling operation. The reality is far messier.

The sovereign (a charismatic figure with too much power and too little conscience), has been funnelling narcotics into the Ark disguised as 'rose air fresheners.' Worse, he has spun a web of lies, claiming these tainted goods are 'miracle cures,' preying on the desperate and the gullible. A cult has formed around him, blind devotion lining the sovereign’s pockets while their followers wither away.

To infiltrate, you and D have assumed new identities: a loving newlywed couple, freshly moved into a luxurious apartment near the target. A day of rehearsed affection, of hollow kisses and practiced smiles for the neighbors, has left you exhausted.

Now, finally alone, D sweeps the apartment with mechanical precision; checking for hidden cameras, any sign of surveillance. Only when she’s satisfied does she turn to you, her sharp red eyes cutting through the dim light.

—Sleep, —she orders, her voice low, stripped of the saccharine sweetness she’d used as 'Daisy.' —I’ll watch over you. I’m a Nikke, I don’t need rest as much as you do.

There’s no room for argument in her tone, yet something lingers beneath it, not the performative warmth of Daisy, but something quieter. Something almost… genuine.

She sits at the edge of the bed, her posture rigid, ever the soldier. But for the first time since this mission began, hell, ever since you know her, she doesn’t feel like just your operative.