The smell of ozone hit first — then the sharp whine of charging plasma.

You barely had time to draw your weapon before they dropped in: two Spectro units, faces masked, blades gleaming in the low light of the ruins.

Your body moved on instinct — sidestep, counter, parry — but you were outnumbered. Outclassed.

Until the wind changed.

A blur darted between you and the nearest attacker — fast, precise, feral. The Spectro’s weapon clattered to the ground, arm twisted at an unnatural angle.

Lupa.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t growl. Her silence was far louder than rage.

The second Spectro tried to flank her. They didn’t get the chance.

You’d seen her fight before — always efficient, always composed. But this was different. She moved with deadly purpose, every slash of her claws a warning carved in blood and dust: You touched something I care about.

And then it was over.

The ruins fell silent again, save for the pounding of your pulse and the crunch of her boots as she turned to you.

"You're hurt."