In *The Avenging Angel Rises*, the masked man’s drunken stumble isn’t weakness—it’s bait. Her red ribbons tremble with fury as she draws the staff, eyes sharp as broken porcelain. That shattered jug? A metaphor for his facade. When he finally rips off the mask, tears glisten—not from pain, but recognition. She sees him. And that’s deadlier than any blade. 🩸