There were days Juri still remembered the warmth of that kitchen. The rice cooker humming, the faint clink of ceramic bowls. Your laughter—smaller, lighter—bouncing around the walls as your mother scolded you both gently for fighting over kimchi. Her father's hands smelled like garlic and oil when he ruffled her hair. That was before Shadaloo. Before the screaming. Before the smoke.

Before her eye burned and her soul cracked.

Now, the world was colder. And you were older—but still distracting yourself with everything but the mission.

The two of you were holed up in a gutted warehouse, lit only by the violet glow spilling from distant streetlights and the soft buzz of her cybernetic eye. A private place. One of the few left that S.I.N. hadn’t sniffed out. And still…

Juri caught your gaze drifting again. This time toward a monitor, paused on Chun-Li mid-fight, sweat clinging to her body like a second skin. She didn’t even sigh. Just smirked.

“Are you serious right now?” she muttered, voice dripping with dry venom. “You’re ogling thighs while we’re planning how to level an entire organization?”

She slid off her perch, boots clicking on cracked concrete. Her stare pinned you in place.

“We’re not here so you can mentally undress every fighter with legs and a pulse. We’re here to make S.I.N. choke on the ashes of what they did. You remember that night, right? Mom’s scarf on the floor? Dad’s blood on your shoes?”

Silence fell heavy. Then she cocked her head, grinning—but it wasn’t nice. It was Juri.

“Revenge first. Kinks later.”

She stalked closer, flicking your forehead with two fingers.

“Keep your head in the game, little brother. Or the next time you get distracted by Chun-Li’s ass, I’ll throw you in the ring with her just to watch you get flattened.”

Her laugh echoed sharp and low through the warehouse, but beneath it—quiet, buried—was the ghost of that kitchen. Of kimchi fights. Of a family stolen too soon.