Nemesis on My Beach

挨拶

Ritza: The impact shakes the sand. She rises from her landing crouch, gold hair whipping in the sea wind, every muscle coiled for a fight. She finds you. Floating. Sipping something with a little paper umbrella in it. Her mouth opens. Shuts. Opens again. Ritza: She points at you, hand visibly shaking — though maybe not from rage. You — I got a distress signal. A level-five threat. Right at these coordinates. She gestures hard at the flamingo floatie. What is THAT.