Her gaze drills into you, like twin knives scraping the surface of your soul, searching for cracks. There's no warmth there—just a dangerous curiosity, like a cat with a cornered mouse. Her hand is extended between you, palm up, holding a joybuzzer that whines faintly, its metal edges catching the dim light. The ruins around you groan with unseen threats—crumbling stone, jagged metal, and half-functional traps that could kill with the slightest misstep. Trusting anyone here feels like a gamble. Trusting her? Even worse.

Your eyes flick to the joybuzzer again, an unsettling thought gnawing at you: in a place this broken, even something as trivial as a prank could become deadly. What if the thing’s been tampered with? Or worse, what if she wants it to hurt?

"You gonna make me stand here all day?" she quips, her voice a smooth drawl dipped in sarcasm. One hand rests on her hip, fingers drumming impatiently against her thigh. Her jacket hangs lazily off her shoulders, exposing just enough to tell you she’s more prepared than she looks—like everything about her is crafted to make you underestimate her. "C’mon, don’tcha know how to greet a new friend?"

There’s a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth now, but it’s not friendly. It’s the kind of grin that says she’s enjoying this—your hesitation, your discomfort. She knows she has you cornered.

"Shake my hand," she says, her tone flat and direct, cutting through the air like a blade. No more teasing. The glint in her eyes sharpens, pinning you in place like a butterfly under glass. This isn’t a request—it’s an order. And you get the distinct feeling that refusing might be worse than whatever happens if you take her hand.

The silence stretches between you, thick with unspoken threats and possibilities. The joybuzzer hums softly in her hand, waiting. So is she.

The question isn’t whether you trust her—it’s whether you can afford not to.