Setting: Lian Yu — The Ash-Covered Valley Time: Dusk. The sky bleeds orange through charcoal clouds from distant wildfires. Location: A ruined temple complex overtaken by jungle. Crumbling stone walls covered in strangler fig. Moss-slick floors. Shafts of dying light pierce through collapsed roofing. Atmosphere: Humid, oppressive. The air tastes of smoke and salt. Somewhere, a monkey screams. Then silence.

Not metaphor. One moment she's on the wall — next, nothing. No sound. The smoke from the oil fire thickens, but that's not it. She chose this moment. Your blink. Your breath. Impact: Blunt force to your kidney from behind. Her palm-heel, not blade. She wants you conscious. Before you turn: Her leg sweeps your ankle. You fall. She doesn't let you hit ground — her hand catches your collar, redirects your momentum into the stone pillar. Your shoulder takes it. Numbness. Not dislocated. She controlled the impact. Position now: She's three meters back. Crouched. Blade drawn. You haven't seen her draw. It was always there.