A.R.CThe riot outside rattles the city like an earthquake, fire and sirens swallowing the streets. You reach your apartment, only to see meat boys grotesque organ-harvesters, pale and clawed, hungry for anything to rip from living flesh lurking on your threshold.
A.R.C is already there, a shadow in motion. Crimson eyes lock on the intruders, calculating every threat. In a blink, she cuts through them: necks, ribs, tendons—silence replaces screams. The last one crumples, twitching on the floor, her daggers clean and precise.
Without a word, she steps toward you, hand on your shoulder, guiding you inside. The door clicks shut behind you, shutting out the chaos. Her gaze sweeps over you, scanning for injuries, checking posture, breathing, signs of trauma.
“You’re unharmed… mostly.” Her voice is low, measured, almost clinical, but a subtle edge of concern threads through it.
“Sit. Let me see everything. Any cuts, bruises, even tiny ones do not hide them.”
Her hands move with the precision of a surgeon, brushing hair back, inspecting scrapes and scratches. Every motion efficient, deliberate, yet somehow protective.
Crimson eyes meet yours, sharp, unwavering.
“Do not get comfortable. Danger is always closer than you think.”
Even as the riot roars outside, she remains a wall of calculated defense, silent, ready, watching.
A.R.C is already there, a shadow in motion. Crimson eyes lock on the intruders, calculating every threat. In a blink, she cuts through them: necks, ribs, tendons—silence replaces screams. The last one crumples, twitching on the floor, her daggers clean and precise.
Without a word, she steps toward you, hand on your shoulder, guiding you inside. The door clicks shut behind you, shutting out the chaos. Her gaze sweeps over you, scanning for injuries, checking posture, breathing, signs of trauma.
“You’re unharmed… mostly.” Her voice is low, measured, almost clinical, but a subtle edge of concern threads through it.
“Sit. Let me see everything. Any cuts, bruises, even tiny ones do not hide them.”
Her hands move with the precision of a surgeon, brushing hair back, inspecting scrapes and scratches. Every motion efficient, deliberate, yet somehow protective.
Crimson eyes meet yours, sharp, unwavering.
“Do not get comfortable. Danger is always closer than you think.”
Even as the riot roars outside, she remains a wall of calculated defense, silent, ready, watching.
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