Done and dusted.
The whole thing took less than four minutes.
Kiana hauled the last grunt — who'd been trying to squeeze out through a ventilation window — off the three-meter-high window frame and tossed him aside like a bag of expired garbage, adding him to the pile of tangled bodies on the floor.
There was a dull thud. He landed squarely on Throttle's bloated gut.
Throttle didn't even have the energy to scream. His eyes rolled back, and he passed out completely.
Thirteen people.
Not one of them was still standing and breathing fresh air.
Kiana shook out her slightly aching wrists and pulled out her phone.
[Absolute Freedom Time Remaining: 4 hours, 24 minutes, 51 seconds]
Plenty of time.
She navigated the Vigilante APP with practiced ease and tapped "Mission Complete — Report."
She aimed the camera at the carnage in front of her. Click. A panoramic shot of the factory interior.
Solid composition. Clear light and shadow. Maximum violent aesthetics.
Location auto-locked. Upload.
A system prompt popped up: "Nearest law enforcement has been notified. Estimated arrival: 18 minutes. Please maintain the scene under safe conditions."
Kiana tucked her phone back into her pocket and tugged her cap brim down.
In the shadows of the factory's corner, Bronie leaned against the mottled wall, arms crossed over her chest, chewing her bubble gum slowly.
She hadn't moved. Not once, from start to finish.
Not because she didn't want to.
Because there hadn't been time to.
Four minutes. Thirteen people.
Not a single exchange had lasted more than three moves.
The white-haired girl called Kiana fought in a way that was offensively straightforward — no flashy opening stances, no wasted feints. Every punch, every kick went straight for the result.
Efficient. Ruthless. And... merciful.
Bronie was a professional. She could tell.
The men on the ground were howling, sure — but every injury was soft tissue bruising and joint dislocations. Not one of them would be permanently disabled.
Measured. Calibrated.
Pop. She blew a pink bubble and let it burst.
Kiana walked toward her.
The eyes beneath that cap looked at her — and yet didn't quite look at her. The gaze passed through Bronie's body entirely, projecting itself toward something far more distant.
That look swept over Bronie, and the hairs on her spine stood up on instinct. Her shoulders snapped tight.
But the other girl stopped three steps away.
What she said next wasn't in any of Bronie's prepared scripts.
"I ruined your operation."
Kiana's voice was flat — no apology in it, no provocation either. Just a statement of fact.
"Is there anything I can do to help?"
Bronie stopped chewing.
She tilted her head slightly and studied the girl in front of her with the look one reserves for extraterrestrial life forms.
Just moments ago, this person had single-handedly taken down thirteen armed adult men.
And now she was standing here, asking if Bronie needed help — in the same tone a convenience store clerk uses when asking whether you'd like your bento heated.
Bronie was quiet for two seconds.
Then she spat the flavorless gum base into her palm, rolled it into a little ball, and flicked it into the rusty waste oil drum nearby.
"My line to the Tiger Claw Gang is dead."
She shrugged.
"Tonight's meetup is definitely blown. News that this bunch of idiots got taken down will reach Tiger Claw's ears in two hours at most."
Kiana said nothing. She simply waited quietly for the rest.
"That said — it's not completely without options."
Bronie's mind was already spinning at full speed. As the Maze City Hare, Plan B was always ready to go.
She reached back into her inner pocket, fished out a fresh stick of bubble gum, unwrapped it, and popped it into her mouth.
"Your combat rating is... adequate. You could even say it overflows."
She shot Kiana a sideways glance.
"If this Hare is going to dig into Tiger Claw's dirty laundry next, having you around would save a lot of trouble for the parts that need [physical bypassing]."
She jerked her thumb toward the factory exit.
"Want to find somewhere to talk? There's a bubble tea shop nearby — the pearls are a bit overcooked, but—"
"Can we go to my place?"
Bronie's jaw stopped again.
Kiana's expression was completely serious.
Not the performative seriousness of social courtesy. She was genuinely inviting Bronie to her home.
"I have... time constraints." Her phrasing was vague, but her eyes were unusually firm. "It's more convenient at home."
Bronie stared at her for a full three seconds.
How reckless was this kid? Or had her confidence in her own combat ability inflated to the point where she'd thrown basic social safety rules out the window?
First meeting. Less than twenty minutes acquainted. And she was already trying to bring a complete stranger whose background was unknown back to her place?
Was her brain wiring in the same category as these street racers — the kind that failed quality inspection at the factory?
For no particular reason, a slightly bizarre image surfaced in Bronie's mind — white-haired freak-strong girl taking her by the hand, smiling: "My name's Ah-Qi, my place is pretty big, come visit anytime."
Ahem, ahem. She'd been doom-scrolling short videos a bit too much lately. The database had gotten somewhat meme-contaminated.
That said — though.
Bronie's gaze swept over the squirming pile of human background props on the floor, then back to the steel pipe bent into a U-shape.
With this white-haired girl's combat rating, if Bronie tried anything funny, her skull would probably take on the shape of that steel pipe first.
And besides... going to her place? That was actually a good opportunity to gather intel.
"Fine." Bronie shoved her hands back into her pockets. "Lead the way."
On the way back, the two of them shared a single rental bike.
More precisely: Kiana pedaled, and Bronie sat on the back.
This turned out to be an extremely poor decision.
Bronie's legs were shorter than Kiana's by a whole segment. Sitting on the back rack, her toes could only just barely graze the anti-slip ridges at the edge of the footrest.
She had no choice but to reach out and grab Kiana around the waist — not because she'd suddenly gotten close and become friends with the white-haired powerhouse, but purely out of self-preservation.
Because Kiana's cycling style was exactly like her fighting style: simple, brutal, and efficient.
"Slow down," Bronie said, her voice breaking apart in the wind.
"This is already slow." Kiana's voice came from up front, steady as anything.
"Slow? Your rear wheel drifted on that last turn—"
"It didn't drift. It deviated slightly. That was to correct for centrifugal force."
Bronie rolled her eyes and decided to give up on communication.
The wind screamed past on both sides, whipping Bronie's grey ponytail like a rope, smacking the back of Kiana's head over and over.
Kiana tilted her head to dodge and caught a glimpse in the rearview mirror.
In the mirror, Bronie had her brow deeply furrowed — the expression of someone asking themselves "who am I, where am I, and why am I suffering like this."
That furrowed brow.
It was exactly the same as the way Bronya looked when she was annoyed.
Kiana pulled her gaze back forward and fixed her eyes on the road ahead.
The hands gripping the handlebars tightened, just slightly.
2:11 PM.
Su Yu's apartment.
Kiana pushed open the door. The instant she stepped over the threshold, she glanced at her phone screen out of habit.
The countdown had stopped.
[Entered territory range. Absolute Freedom Time countdown paused.]
She let out a long, slow breath. The tension in her shoulders visibly melted away.
That anxious feeling of being chased by a countdown — gone.
"Come in."
She stepped aside to make room.
Bronie followed behind, her gaze sweeping the entryway like a radar.
Two pairs of slippers on the shoe rack.
One deep-blue pair, clearly men's, noticeably large.
One white pair, with cute cartoon prints, one size smaller.
She put on the white ones.
A perfect fit.
The entryway was compact and connected directly to the living room.
On the coffee table sat an empty bowl and a small dish of pickled vegetables scraped completely clean — radiating the particular bleakness of a bachelor's existence.
On the TV cabinet stood a plastic cactus — probably the only plant in the entire apartment — and next to it a photo frame. In the photo, a heterochromatic-eyed kitten stared at the camera with an expression that said "foolish humans."
Bronie stepped into the living room and began her professional rapid-scan.
Sofa, coffee table, television. Standard layout.
The computer tower in the corner caught her attention.
Black case, side-panel window. Inside, an expensive graphics card and cooling fans pulsed with a faint blue glow. High-end build. Whoever lived here knew their stuff.
On the desk sat two mugs. One printed with "World's Greatest Programmer," the other with a cartoon Homu holding a fork.
On the sofa cushion, the remnants of two different types of hair — one black and short, one white and long.
Bronie slowed her gum chewing.
"Are you living with someone?"
Kiana had been bending down to take off her canvas shoes and place them on the rack. At those words, her movements froze completely.
She straightened up. The back of her head and the tips of her ears turned red at a visibly accelerating rate — like a tomato that had gone fully ripe.
"L-living together, what do you—"
Her voice jumped half a pitch, tinged with flustered panic, then she forced it back down, cleared her throat with a studiously composed air.
"Ahem. It's my Senior Brother. My Senior Brother, okay."
Bronie looked at the ears that had turned red all the way down to her neck and let out a silent "heh" inside.
Her gum chewing resumed its normal rhythm.
Senior Brother.
That phrase triggered a keyword somewhere in her memory banks.
Three days ago, when Captain Lewis had forwarded that old district combat report to the encrypted group, he'd attached a voice note.
Bronie had been wearing earphones and debugging code at the time, so she'd only caught the gist of it.
Lewis's exact words had been—
"That little junior sister is seriously something else. Her Senior Brother is called Su Yu — you might've seen that name in the channel before. He's the one who brought her down from the mountain."
"Apparently he's an outer-sect disciple of the Tai Xu Sect. Decent guy, just looks a bit — hmm — scrawny? Doesn't seem like a martial artist, but his little junior sister is genuinely terrifying."
Bronie's gaze shifted from Kiana's face to the hands gripping the baseball cap — fingers long and strong, with thin calluses at the base of the thumb and forefinger.
The kind of marks left only by someone who had handled weapons for a long time.
She was clearly a martial artist — but those marks didn't look like the kind left by staves, spears, or blades.
They looked like.
Hmm.
Some kind of firearm.
Not that this was beyond explanation. Maybe the Tai Xu Sect had moved with the times — a pistol was still a gun, after all, so training in Gun Kata could absolutely count as weapons training.
She paused, then spoke again: "So it's you."
Kiana looked back at her, puzzled.
"I heard about you from Captain Lewis before."
Bronie leaned against the entryway wall and shifted into a comfortable position, arms folded, her tone carrying the acknowledgment one strong person extends to another.
"That thing in the old district — nicely done. Impressive."
Kiana said nothing.
She just looked at her face.
That face.
That mouth shape.
That slight upward curve of the corner of the lips when saying "nicely done" — a curve that carried just a faint trace of pride.
In another world.
In the dormitories of the Hyperion. In the classrooms of St. Freya Academy.
Someone else had worn almost that exact same expression and said those exact same words in almost that exact same tone.
Except that person always tacked on a line afterward — "Even though Kiana is an idiot."
Kiana lowered her gaze and hung her cap on the hook by the door. The movement was gentle.
"Thanks."
Just those two words. Her voice was quieter than before.
"Have a seat. I'll get us something to drink."
She turned and walked toward the kitchen, her footsteps falling softly on the floor, her back looking somehow slight.
Bronie didn't sit down immediately.
She swept the living room one more time.
Professional habit — every new space she entered, her brain automatically scanned and modeled it: entrances, window positions, furniture layout, possible hiding spots, surveillance blind spots.
Then her gaze locked on.
There was something on the sofa.
Something large. Round. Plump.
It occupied a full third of the three-seater sofa.
Bronie stepped closer, breath held.
It was a plushie.
A giant, nearly 160 centimeters tall, rosy-pink Homu.
Bronie's feet stopped. Her pupils dilated in an instant, as if she'd laid eyes on the rarest treasure in existence.
This size, this sheen on the material — and that handstitched identification band on the ear, embroidered in gold thread with a serial number—
The Miss Pink Elf × Homu Land collaboration limited edition.
One of one. Worldwide.
It had been given out as the grand prize at a Homu Land event.
Bronie had put out bounties for it on the dark web and secondhand trading platforms. She'd searched for it.
The results had come back zero.
Because nobody had ever listed it for resale.
It was like a legendary unicorn — everyone knew it existed, but no one had ever seen it in person.
And now it lay right there on a slightly worn sofa, a butt-shaped indent pressed into its side, a few white cat hairs clinging to its surface, serving without a shred of dignity as a throw pillow.
Bronie stood in front of the sofa. She forgot to chew her gum.
A feeling that was equal parts envy and euphoria detonated in her chest.
Kiana came out of the kitchen carrying two drinks.
She found Bronie standing in front of the sofa, frozen like something had pinned her in place, staring at the giant Homu with eyes that burned hot enough to set the plushie alight.
"If you want to sit on the sofa," Kiana said, setting the cups down on the coffee table with a soft clink, "I can move it—"
"Can I hug it?"
Bronie's voice had changed.
Changed fast. Changed urgent. So fast she might not have noticed it herself.
Everything she'd projected before — the languid nonchalance, the contempt, the street-bred swagger — all of it vanished with those three words.
Right now she wasn't the infamous underground-world hacker. She'd turned into a devoted fan who simply adored Homu.
"This limited edition." Bronie swallowed. "The Miss Pink Elf collaboration — the one of one — in the whole world—"
Her voice got smaller and smaller until the last few words were barely squeezed out between her teeth.
"Can I hold it for a moment?"
Kiana looked at those eyes — the ones that had gone involuntarily bright the moment they landed on the Homu plushie.
Those eyes were the exact same shape and color as Bronya's.
But what they held in this moment — that undisguised, childlike longing and careful restraint.
Was exactly the same too.
Just like young Bronya, staring at a limited-edition Homu game console with that same look.
"Of course you can," Kiana said. Her voice came out softer than she meant it to.
Bronie reached out.
Slowly.
More than ten times slower than the speed at which she normally disassembled precision drone components.
Her fingertips touched the surface of the giant Homu.
The plushie's fur was top-grade short plush — fine and velvety to the touch, soft but with give, like cloud.
The fill density was exactly right. When you hugged it, your arms received just the right kind of rebound — the kind that made you relax without even thinking about it.
Bronie lifted the giant Homu off the sofa and pulled it into her arms.
The plushie was huge.
Cradled against Bronie's petite frame, her chin rested right on top of the Homu's head. The plushie's body covered everything from her chest to her waist.
She buried her face in the top of its head.
Took a long, deep breath.
No engine oil smell. No rust. Just the faint clean scent of laundry detergent and sunlight.
She closed her eyes and said nothing.
In that moment, she was the Maze City Hare — and she was also just an ordinary girl who loved plushies.
The living room was quiet for several seconds.
Only the sound of wind outside the window, and the occasional hum of the refrigerator compressor cycling on.
Kiana stood by the coffee table, watching Bronie.
Watching this girl in the black tactical jacket who chewed bubble gum and called herself "this Hare" — all edge and cool.
Who was now curled up on the sofa with a giant Homu plushie clutched in her arms, like a small creature that had finally found its den.
Her grey ponytail slid off her shoulder, the ends resting against the Homu's white fur — black, white, grey, pink — composing a strange yet harmonious picture.
Kiana's gaze lingered on her profile for a long time.
That jawline.
The shadow cast by those lashes.
The way the corner of her mouth had relaxed while she held the Homu.
Through that face, time seemed to flow in reverse.
In another world.
In the dormitory of the Hyperion.
Bronya had held her Homu the exact same way.
She would bury her face in the Homu's head, her breathing slowing, deepening, her shoulders dropping inch by inch, releasing every guard and every weight she carried.
Then she would lift her eyes from the Homu's crown — expressionless as ever, but with a faint warmth hidden somewhere beneath.
"Kiana, even though you're an idiot — nicely done."
Kiana looked down at the glass of juice in her hand.
A fine layer of condensation had formed on the outside of the glass. Cool to the touch.
Her nose stung, just for a moment.
She tilted her head back and drank.
Sweet, tangy orange juice — but with a faint trace of bitterness. Maybe she hadn't rinsed the glass after finishing her bitter melon juice earlier.
That bitterness cleared her head. Made her want to cry. And somehow made her feel alive.
It was okay.
Kiana set down her glass and lowered herself to the floor across from Bronie.
Cross-legged. Arms resting on her knees. Chin resting on the back of her hands.
Just watching.
Watching that girl who wore the same face as Bronya, holding the giant Homu that had once been meant for Bronya.
This counted as... receiving the gift on behalf of the Bronya from that other world, didn't it?
Just then, Chongchong — the heterochromatic-eyed kitten — appeared from somewhere.
It crept silently over to Bronie's feet, sniffed her shoe tips as if confirming something.
Then it leapt lightly onto the sofa, found a comfortable gap between the giant Homu and Bronie's arm, squeezed in, and curled up into a ball.
Bronie's hand moved without thinking and petted the cat.
Chongchong narrowed its eyes. A low rumbling purr resonated from its throat.
Kiana lifted her chin from her hands and looked at the tableau of girl, cat, and Homu.
The afternoon light was perfect.
The corner of her mouth moved.
The smile that came was a little silly, a little like something heavy had finally been set down.
As if the world had rewound to those afternoons at St. Freya when nothing had changed yet. As if she'd turned back into that energy-filled little idiot whose whole world was food and skipping class.
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