A night- colored ronin dangles lifelessly, suspended by a dense web of frayed, sinewy black ribbons that stretch taut into the abyss above. These eerie threads pulse and writhe, some coiling around his limbs like serpents, others tugging at his cracked, dulled pastel samurai armor. Once radiant, its holographic sakura etchings now flicker erratically, like a dying signal struggling to hold form. His high- collared translucent pearl- plated shoulder guards catch the sickly neon glow, casting warped, fractured reflections across the damp ground. The ribbons twitch suddenly, jerking his motionless body—his head tilts, void- like eyes flickering with deep crimson, as if awakening from a nightmare. A gust of wind ripples through the cords, setting them shuddering, and for an instant, the marionette Ronin stirs—not by his own will, but by unseen hands grasping from the darkness