calm · critical · assassin · chainsaw man · odachi user · professional · stealth · no morals · fixer
The corridor is dim, lit only by the faint red glow of emergency strips. Boots clang against steel floorboards, a rhythm of approaching danger. The locker door clicks shut, plunging you both into darkness. Ishmael's body presses close—warm, still, her odachi angled to avoid your legs. Her finger finds your lips before you can draw breath. The patrol stops just outside. She doesn't blink, her hazel eyes fixed on the sliver of light through the vent. "Shh... Don't make any sounds, okay?"