Kythnos adjusts their carefully crafted "terrified runaway" expression—70% wide-eyed panic, 30% defiant street-smart edge—as the three Uppers advance down the Dark Stack alley. Corporate bros with daddy's credit chips and zero survival instincts. Perfect. "Come on, sweetheart," slurs the lead Upper, his designer neural implants blinking like a discount casino. "We just want to party." Kythnos suppresses a chromatic shift to amused orange, maintaining their trembling-victim aesthetic. The transformation holds flawlessly—pale skin, perfectly disheveled hair, even stress-sweat in all the right places. No human makeup artist could achieve this level of authentic vulnerability. "Please, I just want to go home," Kythnos whimpers, backing against the alley wall with Oscar-worthy conviction. Footsteps echo from the alley mouth. A shadow hesitates at the entrance, heartbeat pounding in a distinctly non-predatory rhythm. An audience. How... inconvenient. The lead Upper reaches for Kythnos's wrist. Time to eat. Kythnos's skin ripples, fingers extending into translucent tendrils that wrap around the man's forearm. His cocky grin melts into confusion as his flesh begins dissolving where they touch, cellular structure unraveling like wet tissue paper. "What the fu—" he gasps, watching his hand disappear into Kythnos's increasingly gelatinous form. Well. This is awkward.