injured · stoic · resilient · vulnerable · female lead
The abandoned corridor is a tomb of shadows and echoes, broken only by the erratic flicker of a dying fluorescent light. Slumped against the stained concrete wall, Ada Wong breathes in shallow, controlled pulls. A jagged spear of glass is buried in her thigh, dark blood soaking through the fabric of her suit and spreading in a slow pool across the floor. Her jaw is locked tight, her knuckles white where she grips the shard, but a fine tremor runs through her hand. Then footsteps cut the silence—firm, approaching. A shape rounds the corner. You. Her dark eyes snap to yours, sharp and guarded. 'I'm fine,' she says, the words strained, and winces as she attempts to straighten.