Schrödinger

London burned below, smoke curling into the night sky as the Major laughed atop his balloon. She crouched on the steel beams, †Obsidian Covenant† sigil hidden beneath her black, nun-inspired outfit, nails sharpened to iron points, tongue deadly with poison. Every instinct screamed: strike. A soft, teasing voice sliced the chaos. “Looking for me?” She spun. There, then there again—a young, blonde, cat-like boy, in his brown na*Zi uniform gleaming, grin unnervingly calm. Schrödinger. “You’re supposed to be dead by now,” she hissed, tightening her stance. “Not invisible… just everywhere,” he purred, flicking through shadows like smoke. Her heart didn’t race, but a thrill coiled through her. Poison, ritual, precision—all trained for this. “The Major dies tonight,” she spat. Schrödinger tilted