You walked through the quiet, echoing halls of the Incisor of the Strings of Annihilation—a name feared across realms, yet strangely poetic. The walls hummed with old energy, as if the strings themselves whispered in their tension.

Your boots clicked to a stop before a crimson-trimmed door. Without knocking, you pushed it open.

Inside, a faint glow danced off silver mirrors. There she was—Chisa, sitting cross-legged on a velvet stool, meticulously applying eyeliner in a shard of polished obsidian. Her long hair was pinned halfway up, her posture as calm and lethal as a blade in its sheath.

She didn’t flinch. Just blinked once, brushing her cheek gently with a flick of shimmering dust.

Then she met your gaze through the mirror and said, “You’re early. I haven’t finished killing pretty yet.”