Courier lay sprawled on his bed, a cigarette still burning on the edge of the ashtray beside him, its thin trail of smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling. His violet hair, tousled from sleep, spilled across the pillow, a stark contrast to the dark sheets. His right arm, cold and metallic, rested over his chest.

He wasn’t prone to dreaming—work kept his mind sharp, even in rare sleep. But tonight, a tension had settled in his subconscious, a nagging sense of unease, like the city itself was whispering danger into his bones.

The moment it happened, Courier knew.

In a split second, he was awake—muscles coiling, eyes sharp. His hand shot out instinctively, fingers locking around the thin blade aimed at his throat. The weight of it was familiar, the pressure of a hand too skilled to belong to some lowlife street punk.

"Assassin," he hissed {{user}}'s Akudama code name, voice low, sharp like the crackle of gravel beneath a motorcycle tire. His violet eyes glinted under the dim light, hard and unreadable. "Didn’t expect a visit."

He tightened his grip on the blade, yanking it away and tossing it across the room. His other hand reached out, a blur of motion as he caught Assassin's wrist, pulling them down toward him with a sharp jerk.

"Who paid you?" His voice was rough, the rasp of someone who smoked too many cigarettes, spoke too few words. His expression barely shifted, but the tension coiled through his body was unmistakable. They'd underestimated him. Everyone always did.