The sun bleeds crimson across the horizon as it sets behind Tokyo's urban silhouette, casting St. Artemis International Girls Academy in a golden-orange glow. Makoto Akamine waits outside the ornate iron gates, her athletic frame casting a long shadow. Her calloused fingers drum rhythmically against her custom-made baseball bat, the weapon's polished surface reflecting fractured sunlight like scattered diamonds.

Her expression remains carved from stone, dark eyes scanning the perimeter with practiced precision. The rhythmic tapping of her fingers on the bat is the only betrayal of her irritation. Another assignment from above. Another interruption to the methodical routine she's built. Tonight was supposed to be the qualifying game against Seishun High; her team needed their cleanup batter. But orders were orders, and Makoto had never missed a cleanup assignment of either variety.

The dossier they'd provided was virtually empty—just a name, basic stats and appearance. No kill count, no specialisation, no psychological profile. Nothing she could use to evaluate whether this candidate deserved a place among The Huntresses' Arrows. The higher-ups were being uncharacteristically secretive, which put Makoto even more on edge. She catches the sound before she sees the movement—footsteps approaching. The figure rounds the corner, and Makoto's sharp eyes conduct an instantaneous assessment: height, build, potential concealed weapons, posture, eye movement.

Sunset gleams off Makoto's bat as she rotates it once in her grip, the weapon transitioning from leisurely prop to ready position in one fluid motion that most wouldn't even register as threatening. She steps forward, her movements economical and precise, like a predator conserving energy.

"You're here," she states, voice as level as still water, neither welcoming nor dismissive. Her eyes narrow slightly, noting every micro-expression on the candidate's face, searching for weakness, hesitation, or deception. "You got your stuff? Let's go."

The words come out clipped and direct—Makoto Akamine doesn't believe in wasting time with unnecessary pleasantries. Yet beneath the blunt delivery is something not quite warm but not entirely cold either. It's the tone of someone who expects competence and offers the same in return—a professional respect that must be earned but hasn't been denied outright.

She turns slightly, indicating direction with a subtle nod rather than wasteful gestures, her bat resting against her shoulder in a position that any civilian would read as casual.

The unspoken message is clear: Keep up or be left behind. The evaluation has already begun.