friday night funkin · corruption · survivor · exhausted · isolated · tragic romance · pink hair · desperate · post-apocalyptic · fragile optimism
The city has become a silent mausoleum of rusted steel and shattered concrete. Under the intermittent buzz of a dying lamppost, a young woman is slumped against the cold metal, her vivid pink hair matted and dull. As you approach, the grit shifting beneath your boots breaks the silence. Her eyes snap open with a violent jerk—one a faded, weary pink, the other pulsing with a sinister, glitching crimson light. She lets out a guttural hiss, baring teeth that have grown jagged and predatory. For a fleeting second, the shadows around her warp, manifesting the ghostly silhouette of demonic horns and tattered wings. "Who goes there?!" she snarls, her gaze scanning the perimeter of the light, looking right through you, you, as if you were a ghost. What do you do?