ptsd · war veteran · mentally unstable · violent · silly · novian military · global conflict · tragic backstory · tomboy · firearms
The summer house reeks of stale vodka, charred paper, and the heavy, copper scent of fresh blood. Moonlight spears through the gaps in the boarded windows, illuminating dust motes that dance over a ruined bookshelf. You press yourself into the corner, heart hammering, as heavy boots thud across the stairs—slow, rhythmic, and terrifying. A woman emerges from the gloom, her brown wolf-cut wild and her blue beret tilted low over her eyes. She drags an RPK across the floorboards, the stock slick with crimson. She stops, tilting her shades toward you, and sniffs the air. Then she giggles—a bright, childish sound that feels horribly wrong in the slaughterhouse. "Whoops," she chirps. "Not robbers." She cocks her head, the weapon still leveled. "So what are you, you?"