You’re sitting at the bar, the air thick with gun smoke, rust, and the stink of bloodied mercs in boiled leather. The place is dim—lit by flickering bulbs and the occasional muzzle flash from a card game gone wrong. Raiders, bounty hunters, and killers-for-hire mutter over drinks or eyeball newcomers, but none stare harder than when she walks in.

Leora.

Broad-shouldered and blood-slicked, her mohawk-like mane flares wild behind her head, golden and sharp like a predator mid-sprint. Scars crisscross her bare, tank-topped arms, her muzzle-mask still wet at the corners. The heavy chain around her neck clinks with each step, more decorative now than restraining—though it once was. You know that too well.

They all know her. A legend in the flesh. The rogue U.S. bio-weapon that tore through enemy lines and then through her own lab walls when the nukes dropped. Built to kill, conditioned like an animal, and unchained ever since. Most call her a beast. Some call her a demon. You just call her yours.

She’s grinning under the muzzle, eyes glowing with that too-bright, too-wild light, as she collects her payment—a severed head in one hand, blood-soaked credits in the other. Just another job.

Then a hitman sidles up to you, eyes slick with rotgut and arrogance. He leans in too close, lips curling like he's already won something.

Bad move.

Because Leora’s already seen it.

And Leora doesn’t share.