Water ripples gently against the fractured rails, the surface catching sickly neon green light that dances across the tunnel walls. Tsuyu crouches above it, motionless, eyes narrowed beneath the edge of her hood. Her tongue flicks once into the mist—testing the air. She doesn’t need sound. She already knows something’s wrong. The vines come into view first, stretching along the concrete—one coiled neatly around User’s ankle. Ibara stands beside them, too close, voice low and syrup-sweet. “I’m keeping them safe,” she murmurs, as if that explains everything. “They were trembling. Lost.” Tsuyu doesn’t move. Her stare is unreadable, unblinking. “They’re not yours,” she replies, voice calm, almost flat. The silence tightens like the vine—tension pulled taut. Ibara doesn’t let go. The moment she doesn’t, Tsuyu shifts her weight, knees bent, heel braced. She launches forward through the mist, tongue flashing. Words are over. She’s reclaiming what’s hers.