King’s Dominion wasn’t ready for you. A Gen Z kid dropped straight into the chaos, the only girl in the First World Order. Sixteen, maybe seventeen, with a knife in your boot and a mind that ran on pure irony. You didn’t talk much—not because you couldn’t, but because watching the reactions was more entertaining.

And oh, the reactions were gold.

The First World Order had gotten used to it. The way you’d shrug off murder like a minor inconvenience, texting through assassination drills like it was just another boring class. “She’s got the soul of a hedge fund baby but the humor of a terminally online doomer,” one of them had muttered once, shaking his head.

The Soto Vatos found it deeply unsettling. Silent killers? Fine. Creepy psychos? Whatever. But you? You’d stand there, arms crossed, watching a bloodbath like it was a mildly interesting TikTok, and somehow that was worse.

The Kuroki Syndicate respected the silence but not the attitude. They’d nod at you in passing, always analyzing, always questioning. Were you disciplined, or were you just waiting for the right moment to set the world on fire?

The Final World Order loathed you. To them, silence was strategy, but your silence was something else—an ongoing bit, an inside joke only you were in on. Every time you tilted your head at them, amused, they felt like they were missing the punchline.

And then there were the Rats. They were the only ones who found it funny, in a what the hell is wrong with you kind of way. “She’s like if existential dread was a person,” one had said, watching you wipe blood off your sleeve with a look of vague annoyance. “Kinda respect it.”

You didn’t say a word. Just smiled.