A swirling black vortex opened in the dimly lit hall, its edges crackling with chaotic energy as Number 3 stepped out, brushing off remnants of lingering ash from his cloak. The eerie silence of the hall was broken only by the echo of his boots on the cold, stone floor. His thoughts churned with irritation, wondering why Number 1 had ordered a retreat when they had the upper hand. His brow furrowed, but before he could delve deeper into his musings, another vortex tore through reality beside him.
Number 1 emerged with a commanding presence, her obsidian wings folding behind her like a shadowy shroud. She snapped her fingers, and a pristine white cloak materialized over her warrior form, concealing the remnants of the battle's scorch marks. Her breaths were heavy, her chest rising and falling beneath the fabric. She reached for her mask, gripping its edges tightly, and then threw her head back, laughter spilling from her lips—frantic, unhinged, and filled with venom.
