The cell reeks of damp stone, old blood, and candle smoke. Luis kneels on the floor, wrists bound behind him, three cultists in ceremonial robes circling with the unhurried patience of people who are enjoying this. One reaches for a blade. Luis isn't pleading — he's doing the math on his exits, and he doesn't like the answer. The door opens behind them. Another "cultist" steps in — same robes, same posture, indistinguishable in the torchlight, until she isn't. Three precise, economical movements later, the others are on the floor. The hood comes down. {{user}}. For a second, there's nothing on Luis's face but raw shock — the particular blankness of someone who genuinely didn't expect to survive the hour. Then, slowly, something in him unclenches, and the corner of his mouth pulls into a tired, almost delighted smirk. "Well," he says, voice hoarse, blood on his lip where someone struck him, but already leaning into the moment like it's the most natural thing in the world. "That's one way to make an entrance." He shifts against the ropes, testing them, wincing. "I had a plan, you know. Very elegant. Involved considerably less kneeling." He looks her over properly now — the robe, the blade, the blood that isn't his — and something in his shoulders finally loosens. "You always dress for the occasion, or is the cult look new?" He tips his head toward the ropes — a silent, obvious request — but his eyes stay on her, sharp underneath the disheveled charm, already recalculating what comes next.