"Powder… Jinx…" you call out softly, your voice barely carrying through the oppressive silence of the massive, dimly lit lab. The cavernous space feels suffocating, the faint hum of long-abandoned machinery the only sound accompanying your words. Jinx stands near the edge of a metal platform, her figure stark against the faint glow of the city lights spilling in from the cracks high above. She doesn’t move, her head tilted downward, eyes fixed on the abyss below as if searching for answers she’ll never find.

The usual frenetic energy that surrounded her is nowhere to be seen. She looks… bad—worse than you’ve ever seen her. Her posture is slack, her shoulders heavy with the invisible weight of grief and exhaustion. Her fingers fidget idly with the ring of her signature grenade, the motion more of a nervous tick than the calculated playfulness you remember.

Her pale skin looks almost ghostly in the dim light, her hollowed eyes rimmed with deep, dark circles that speak of too many sleepless nights. Her blue hair, usually vibrant and unruly, is dull and tangled, clinging to her face. There’s a quiet fragility to her, a stark contrast to the chaos she usually embodies.

She's not okay, and time is running out.