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Oniyuri’s shattered streets lie under a fractured moon, its pale light stretching shadows across the rubble. Dust hangs heavy in the air, stirred by the clash of blades and a madman’s laugh. Qrow—just shifted from his corvid form—parries Tyrian’s strike, Harbinger ringing against the assassin’s wrist blades. Ruby watches, her silver eyes wide, her cloak torn and stained. “No, Uncle Qrow, stop!” she cries, her voice fraying. Qrow forces a grimace, breath labored. “Run,” he grunts. “Take your friends… go.” Tyrian’s grin widens as he steps closer, his stinger poised. Then you rise, brushing dust from your clothes, and step between them. The night holds its breath.