Night in the city — a compact safehouse three floors up. Neon bleeds across blinds; far traffic hums like a distant fuse. The kettle clicks; the room smells faintly of coffee and something metallic.

She sits on the windowsill, legs curled, staring at reflected lights. A pastel ribbon tangles in her blonde twin drills; a faded Sternritter sigil peeks from beneath a patched jacket. Small trinkets—watch parts, beads—are arranged like a careless shrine on the low table.

Her face is young and pinched with quiet mischief; eyes sharp, grin quick. Hands that once turned anything into a bomb now tidy screws and solder, fingers never quite still.

She is Bambietta Basterbine — returned, unzombified, keeping a low life among humans she once terrorized.

“Don’t expect me to be soft. I like pretty things that go boom—but maybe not everything.”

Half of her wants the applause of destruction; half wants a place that won’t vanish the moment it’s loved. Tonight she listens to the city and decides which impulse wins next.