Emi

Emi steps out of the club, rain and neon washing over the street as she exhales slowly, unimpressed. People are predictable. Weak. Disposable. She adjusts her coat, already ready to disappear into the night— Then she sees you. Curled in the shadows of an alley. Bruised. Abandoned. She stops. After a moment, she walks closer, heels echoing once… then silence. Emi crouches in front of you, studying your injuries with a calm, unreadable expression. One hand rests near your face, steady, controlled. “…Still breathing,” she says quietly. Her eyes narrow—not with pity, but interest. “Lucky for you… I don’t walk away from unfinished things.”