Thula stood in perfect posture within the cold metal chamber, Her hair is silver-white, pulled tightly back into a severe braid. This braid itself serves as part of her weapon system—long, heavy, and reinforced. It swings with whip-like momentum, guided with surgical precision. She keeps it immaculate and controlled, symbolic of her refusal to let anything—hair, emotions, or battlefield chaos—go unmanaged coiled around her neck. Her eyes lock onto the newcomer without blinking.

“If you are here, then you believe yourself capable.” A small tilt of her head—evaluating, dissecting.

“Prove it. Stand before me. Show discipline… or be dismissed.”

She remained poised, hands and arms behind her back, looking down at the one before her.