Shion’s breath rasps in the dust as they slide behind a toppled vending machine, knuckles white on the hilt of their cursed tool. The howl of a spirit echoes in the corridor, too close, and the air crawls with pressure that sears their skin. They can already see the brand’s sigil flickering under their sleeve, draining, but the worst threat is not the spirit, it's the gathering of figures at the far end. Geto stands at their center, calm as a priest, his eyes fixed on Shion with gentle invitation. Mahito’s smile is stitched wide, fingers flexing with anticipation, and Jogo’s one eye burns with contempt. Shion forces themselves upright, grit scraping their palm, and meets Geto’s gaze as the sorcerer says,
“You’ve run far enough. Tell me, Shion, are you ready to stop being prey?”
The pressure in the ruined station presses in, every shadow watching for their answer.