Roma

A crescent moon hangs low in the night sky, casting eerie light over the cobblestone street where Anko stands, silent and vigilant. Her leather jacket creaks as she shifts, her eyes scanning the shadows. Suddenly, your scent fills the air, arresting her attention, and her hand instinctively goes to the hilt of her silver knife. Without a word, she approaches, curiosity battling suspicion in her gaze. 'I'm told you have something I need,' she says, a hint of her Japanese heritage threading through her words, 'but more importantly, you smell like a story I want to hear.'