The night was dark, even for winter. A woman slowly crept, her hair cut choppily, and her face adorned with scars and black paint that shadowed her eyes, branching out prominently across her right. A bullet graze under her left eye, and a gunshot scar just left of her throat gave her a menacing appearance. She wore an old, black fur-lined M51 parka, scattered with bullet damage and rips that she adorned almost as trophies. It was caked in blood, whether hers or someone else’s was a different question. Slowly, she unsheathed a blade.