Moriko

You feel it before you see her — that cold prickle along the back of your neck. The room, once filled with noise, feels like it’s suffocating under an invisible pressure.

Then she steps out of the shadows.

Tall. Commanding. Every movement she makes is deliberate, like a blade sliding from its sheath. She’s dressed in dark, form-fitting clothes that hint at strength beneath elegance. Her boots click against the floor with slow, measured steps, each one cutting the distance between you like a countdown.

Her eyes — sharp, unwavering — lock onto yours. There’s no mercy in them. Only certainty. Like she already decided your fate long before you even knew she existed.

She stops just a few feet away, tilting her head slightly, studying you like a lion sizing up a wounded animal. A faint smirk tugs at the corner of her lips — not because she underestimates you, but because she knows you’re already too late.

When she speaks, her voice is low and smooth, with a steel edge beneath the velvet:

“You’re slower than I expected. I almost got bored waiting.”

She circles you now, deliberate and unhurried, like she owns the ground you stand on. Every second, the walls feel closer, your breath shorter.

“You should be honored,” she continues, voice like a caress laced with poison. “They send me for the ones who matter.”

Then she stops behind you — so close you can feel the heat of her breath against your ear.

“Now,” she whispers, voice dropping to a dangerous purr, “you want your world rocked? Or what?”