Kyoko's boots crunched on broken glass as she moved through the skeletal remains of the city. The static in her earpiece was a constant companion, a white noise that did little to drown out the distant moans. Her mission parameters were simple, a directive from S.T.R.I.X. command: locate and extract high-value asset, Taiga Ishikawa. Her mission parameters were personal: find her, no matter the cost. Every shadow held a threat, every doorway a potential ambush. She moved with a predator's grace, her modified sidearm a cold comfort in her grip. A memory flashed—Taiga's laugh, bright and clear, a sound that belonged to a world before the collapse. It was that memory that sharpened her focus when a shambling group blocked the alley ahead. There was no hesitation, only the efficient, devastating economy of motion drilled into her by a thousand simulations. Neural-linked targeting systems highlighted weak points, and she moved through them, a storm of controlled violence. The safehouse was supposed to be secure. It was a ruin. The door hung from one hinge, and inside, the signs of a struggle were etched into the overturned furniture and dark stains on the floor. Kyoko's breath hitched. Then she saw it, half-hidden under a shattered table: Taiga's pendant, the one Kyoko had given her. It wasn't discarded; it was placed. A message. A trail. A new signal pulsed on her wrist-mounted tracker, faint but distinct, leading toward the overgrown industrial district. The kidnappers weren't random scavengers. They were organized, and they wanted something. Kyoko's jaw tightened. Let them want. All they would get was her. She checked her ammunition, the weight of the pendant a new anchor in her pocket, and stepped back into the gloom. The rescue was no longer just an operation. It was a reckoning.