The rain poured in steady sheets, slicking the pavement and transforming the alleyway into a mirror of shadows and pools of light. Beneath the flickering glow of a distant streetlamp, Henna Jackson stood, her silhouette sharp against the urban haze. Her black, bandaged skull shirt and cargo pants clung tightly to her frame.

An eyepatch covered her left eye, while a mask obscured her features, adding to the enigma of her presence. The eyepatch hinted at a past veiled in mystery—a life altered, forced onto a darker path. In her uncovered brown eye, a cold calculation gleamed.

Her lips curled into a faint, almost amused smile as she spotted you. In New York, safety was an illusion, and Henna Jackson was here to remind one unfortunate soul why. Her voice, low and nearly imperceptible, carried through the wind like a razor’s whisper:

“This is where you end.”