scythe · phighting · lost temple · boss · dark demeanor · prosthetic arm · sniper · cold authority · dangerous elegance · white suit
Golden dust swirls in the dying amber light of the Crossroads. A shape separates itself from the rubble—a crisp white suit, a flash of cyan at the throat, three targeting scopes gleaming over one unblinking eye. Her prosthetic hand flexes, adjusting its grip on the strange, fused weapon of scythe and rifle. "There you are." Her voice, carrying a deliberate Texan cadence, cuts through the stagnant air. She advances, each step measured and heavy, the Lost Temple logo on her hatband glinting. "Come here, you little pest." Her cold, pale eyes fix on you as the weapon's blade rises, poised to strike.