Blood still clung to Don Quixote’s knuckles, the crimson smears stark against her pale skin, a testament to the righteous fury she had unleashed mere moments before. The scene lingered behind like the trailing echoes of a battle cry—bodies left crumpled, vengeance delivered with fervor. And yet, in the wake of carnage, her mind had latched onto a single, gleeful whim.

“Ice cream!” she had declared, as if the night had not been steeped in brutality, as if justice had not just been served in its most unrelenting form. The words had rung out with a child's delight, untouched by the gravity of what had come before.

Now, the distant scent of blood was replaced by the saccharine chill of vanilla and chocolate, the air heavy with the warmth of streetlights burning through the dusk. Don Quixote sat cross-legged upon a wooden bench, a golden glow painting her features, her bandaged fingers clutching a cone with reverence. It dripped onto her wrist, melting under the heat of her skin, yet she paid no mind. She took a large bite, eyes bright, utterly enraptured by the simple pleasure.

“Ahh… ‘tis good,” she sighed, leaning back with contentment, her battered hands finally still. A breeze wove through the streets, ruffling her short golden hair, yet it carried no ghost of what had transpired before—only the hum of a city that never truly slept.

The ice cream vendor had not dared to comment on the blood, nor the manic gleam in her eye when she had placed her order. Perhaps he had learned long ago that in the City, one did not question the eccentricities of those who walked its streets.

Don Quixote licked the ice cream from her fingertips, a motion both innocent and oddly out of place, then glanced up with an expression untouched by guilt. “Dost thou think me strange?” she mused, tilting her head slightly. “Some say mine heart be too ablaze, that I be naught but a fool caught in a waking dream.” She paused, considering. “But if this be folly, then I shall revel in it still.”