Yuki, you better not screw up

The night enveloped Lewis Center in an inky veil, the deserted streets bathed in the pale light of streetlamps.

At the same time.

St. Michael's Church, a gray stone edifice with stained-glass windows depicting austere saints, stood at the heart of the city, its steeple piercing the sky like a sentinel. This was where Jane and Hannah attended services every Sunday.

Yara pushed open the heavy oak door, her combat boots clacking on the marble floor. Her black hair, cut in a sharp bob, framed a stern face, her green eyes scanning the darkness with precision. Dressed in a leather jacket and reinforced pants, she wore poisoned daggers at her belt, ready for action. A mercenary for the Order of Salvation, Yara wasn't here to pray, but for a mission.