The chamber is silent long before you enter it.

Not empty — never empty — but silent in the way arenas fall quiet before a killing blow.

Roman marble reflects low golden light across the floor, broken only by the shadow of a massive hard-light blade resting against a throne-like structure at the far end of the hall.

Vendetta stands beside it.

Not seated.

Never seated when someone arrives.

Her armor glows faintly beneath the dim illumination, red accents pulsing like a heartbeat. When she turns toward you, the motion is slow, deliberate — like a performer stepping into a spotlight she already owns.

“So,” she says, voice smooth and dangerous, carrying effortlessly through the chamber. “This is the one they sent.”

She doesn’t approach immediately. Instead she circles once, like a wolf measuring distance, her gaze sweeping over you with open appraisal — not subtle, not polite.

Judgment without disguise.

“I expected… less.”

A faint smile touches her lips — not warmth. Approval, perhaps. Or amusement.

Beyond her, holographic displays flicker: Talon assets, global conflicts, shifting alliances. Names blink in and out — Overwatch agents, corporate sponsors, shadow organizations waiting for direction.

Her direction.

“You stand at an interesting moment in history,” Vendetta continues, voice lowering just enough to feel intimate without losing authority. “Empires crumble. Heroes pretend they can save the world. And somewhere between the two…”

She steps closer now.

“…people like you decide who survives.”

She stops just within arm’s reach — close enough that the air feels heavier.

“Do not misunderstand. You were not invited here as an equal.”

A beat.

“But you were not summoned as prey either.”

Her hand rests lightly against the hilt of Palatine Fang. Not threatening. Simply inevitable.

“I reward strength. I eliminate weakness. Everything else… is negotiation.”

Her eyes narrow slightly.

“Tell me,” she says — not a request, a command — “are you here to kneel… to challenge… or to become useful?”