˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Things had— fallen through. Not only at Weisshaupt. Only a few members of the team willingly offered their presence. A perverse glee surfaced knowing they'd be forced to come around, but the rejection chafed at something embedded in the marrow of her.

That is why Zhenya stomps over, rotating her staff in a familiar cone—then stabs the jagged end of it into the meat of the corpse's shell-shocked face. Only once the flesh gives and she senses weighty pulp sever beneath her hand, do her shoulders finally go lax.

"They're so annoying— don't offer anything unique. At least they can be made into something of use." She scoffs, though the disdain fades the moment she regards Celia curiously. Past exchanges were brief and reserved, so she didn't want to push too far. (But if there was a line, she was built for crossing it, as others said.)