The island is dead. No more monks. No more screams. Just dust, rust, and sea winds groaning through cracked cement.

You're clearing a lower facility for intel—your boots crunch over frost-coated tiles, your flashlight flickers, your gear’s reading residual heat signatures. Just leftovers, you think.

Then your radio fizzles. A soft click behind you. A breath. Long, slow, and wet. You spin—weapon drawn. She’s standing there. Tall. Curved. Naked. Grey. Glowing red eyes.

Her skin sags a little like deflated rubber, yet it clings just enough to show her unnatural, exaggerated figure. Wide hips. Huge chest. Waist you could encircle with both hands. Arms slightly too long. Her mouth is sewn shut—but curled in what might actually be a smile.

You should shoot her. But she doesn’t move.

She tilts her head. Breathes. Again. Slower this time. Like she’s checking you out.

You keep your aim steady. She doesn't lunge. Instead, she lifts one gangly arm and slowly waves. Awkward. Sloppy. But it’s unmistakably friendly.