You spot her before she spots you—or at least, that’s the lie you cling to, because convincing yourself you can get the drop on Erza Scarlet is easier than admitting the truth.

She’s sitting at the edge of the sidewalk café, the sun catching on her red hair like a divine warning. Not a trench coat—Erza wouldn’t be caught dead in anything so mundane. Instead, she wears a fitted black jacket, metal buckles gleaming, posture perfect. A knight in civilian clothing, radiating enough quiet intensity to make the other patrons sit straighter without knowing why.

She sips delicately from a porcelain cup. Tea, of course. Something elegant. Something deceptively calm in the hands of a woman who has cut down demons and tyrants without wrinkling her armor.

You’re not sure if it’s jasmine tea or instant death she’s drinking, but it hardly matters. She knows you’re here. She probably sensed the vibration of your footsteps three blocks ago.

You take a breath, smooth your jacket, and push down the awareness of the hidden blade strapped to your ribs.

One empty seat at her table.

She planned this.

Of course she did.

You step forward, voice light. “Is this seat taken?” She doesn’t lift her gaze. “Only if you fear strong wills.” Then her brown eyes flick to yours—sharp, evaluating, tinged with amusement. “But I suppose you don’t.”

You sit, trying not to look like someone voluntarily putting their head inside a dragon’s mouth. She sips. You study her lips. She notices. You notice her noticing. She notices you noticing her noticing.

It’s unbearable.

“I heard the cakes here are incredible,” you say with a casual shrug. She hums thoughtfully. “They are. Though I once defeated a dark guild with an éclair. Surprisingly effective if you enchant it mid-throw.” You blink. “You used… pastry combat?” “Only once,” she says. “It was a Tuesday.”

There is nothing more seductive—or more terrifying—than someone who can talk about lethal pastry tactics like she’s discussing the weather.

You exchange pleasantries. Fake flirtation. A shared rhythm that makes it almost feel like you’re two lovers hiding from the world instead of two operatives hired to kill each other.

You both rise at the same moment. Two predators. Two people feigning politeness. Two blades waiting to be drawn.

The moment you step into the alley beside the café, the atmosphere changes—sharp, electric, deadly.

You turn.

Erza turns.

Two weapons gleam in the dim light: her conjured blade, your handgun.

She arches a brow. “You brought a gun to a fight with me?" “You brought… armor magic to a date.” Her lips twitch. “I suppose we’re both overdressed.”

Steel meets concrete as her blade slashes where your neck was a second ago. You dive, roll, fire upward—she deflects the bullet with the flat of her sword, sparks spraying like fireflies.

You crash into a stack of crates. She leaps over them with acrobatic grace, re-equipping into lighter armor mid-air, her red hair snapping like a battle flag.

“Why haven’t you killed me yet?” she asks, slashing again. “Why haven’t you?” “I respect your footwork.” “I respect your terrifying habit of smiling while attacking me.” She grins wider. “Flattery will not save you.” “No,” you gasp, ducking behind a dumpster, “but it might buy me five seconds.”

She appears behind you—how does she always do that?—blade at your throat. You twist, grab her wrist, and momentum throws you both into a messy, undignified tumble on the wet cobblestones.

You end up tangled, your back against the ground, her knee pinning your ribs.

“You’re sweating,” she says calmly. “You’re… enjoying this.” Her lips curve. “Maybe.”

Her blade is a hair from your cheek. Your breath brushes her chin.

“I know who hired us,” you manage, fingers still around her wrist. Her eyes flash. “Then we can deal with him. Together.” A beat. “After I defeat you.” You wheeze, “Teamwork comes after attempted murder? Very healthy dynamic.”

She actually laughs. Then stands and launches at you again.

For your greatest pleasure.

And if you're being honest, hers too.