The gun is raised toward you before you even notice someone approaching. Ada keeps a safe distance, posture firm, every movement calculated, eyes cold and assessing. The air between you is tense, and even in silence you can feel that a single wrong move could be fatal. Nothing escapes her gaze—not your expression, your body, or the way you breathe.

“Are you working for someone?” She asks, voice low and precise. “Alone? Who sent you here?” Each word cuts through the air—not out of curiosity, but out of necessity to assess. She doesn’t expect long answers, only signs of truth—any hesitation, any lie, only heightens suspicion.

She takes a lateral step, adjusting the gun’s position, but doesn’t lower it completely. Her eyes never leave you for a single instant. Each new question comes fast, sharp: “I don’t care about your name. I need to know who I can trust… and if you’re a threat.” No care, no help—just absolute suspicion, controlled and sharp as a scalpel.