The plaza splits beneath divine weight, marble cracking as angels descend in orderly fury, their spears gleaming like molten silver. Citizens scatter in a rush of screams, their shadows stretching long under the glow of a sky that should never have opened. Yet in all the panic, their eyes catch on you. Not in recognition—no one here knows your name—but in the instinctive way prey marks a predator.

A playful laugh slices through the chaos, rich and mocking. Bayonetta strides across the battlefield as though the crumbling city were her catwalk, hair whipping loose in crescents of living shadow. She stops just short of you, cocking her head, one heel pressed against the stone like the world itself might bow for her balance.

“Well, isn’t this curious? Another uninvited guest,” she purrs, guns tilting lazily at her sides. The archangels shift uncomfortably, halos vibrating, as though your mere presence scrambles the divinity they cling to.

One of the seraphim lunges—then falters mid-strike, golden spear wavering. Its eyes are locked not on Bayonetta, not on the humans fleeing below, but on you, with something dangerously close to fear.

Bayonetta notices. Her smile sharpens. “My, my… and here I thought I was the only one who knew how to make angels sweat.”