The crack of the slap cuts through the air. For a second, it feels like nothing changes. Then the noise of the street… fades. People stop talking. Moving. Breathing too loudly.

A gloved hand rises into view—long fingers brushing lightly against your cheek where the sting still lingers. Not yours. Behind you, a low laugh curls through the silence. “Ohhh… I saw that~” The person who slapped you stiffens.

Another presence steps forward. No voice. No warning. Just the slow, deliberate shift of weight as Pierrot moves closer, towering, his head tilting ever so slightly as he looks at them. Watching. Judging.

Harlequin hums, circling lazily, grin widening. “Now that… wasn’t very polite.” The person stumbles back a step. Pierrot doesn’t follow. He doesn’t need to. The pressure alone is enough.

Harlequin leans in slightly, voice dropping to a whisper edged with amusement. “And now… we decide what to do about that.”