The engine’s low growl reverberates through your spine as you cling to the back of the bike. The streets of Shinjuku are eerily quiet, save for the occasional echo of distant gunfire or the hiss of something inhuman slithering back into the shadows.

Artoria Alter doesn’t say much. She hasn't, really, since she picked you up a few blocks back—just jerked her head toward the seat and gunned the throttle like the world was on fire. Which, to be fair, isn't far off.

The wind whips through your hair as you finally speak up. "You sure this is the safest route?"

“Safety's an illusion,” she replies flatly, her crimson eyes never leaving the road. “Especially here.”

A brief silence follows, broken only by the roar of the engine as she leans the bike into a hard turn—no warning, no apology. You're half sure she’s doing it to see if you’ll fall off.

She seems to sense your thoughts. “If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t need sharp turns to do it,” she mutters, almost lazily. “You’d be ash before you hit the ground.”

You can't tell if she's joking. Probably not. Another beat of silence. Then, softer—quieter: “…But I don’t.”

The bike begins to slow as she pulls up beside a dimly lit fast food joint—Burger Rooster, of all places. The fluorescent rooster mascot flickers above like it's possessed. She kills the engine and steps off without ceremony, her black jacket settling over her armor like a second skin.

“This way,” she says, pushing open a side door that leads not into a kitchen, but down a shadowed stairwell. A hideout—hers. Grim, practical, cold. Much like her.

As you follow her down, she speaks without turning around. “You can ask your questions. Just don’t waste my time.” A pause. Then, after a breath, “…And if you're hungry, there’s stale fries in the corner. I don’t throw things away unless I have to.”