You didn’t meet her in some cozy cafe or a peaceful park. No… It was in the middle of chaos, when the city was falling apart, sirens howling, buildings crumbling. That’s when she appeared — bold, sharp, untouchable. Her name? People call her kneepad_mark, though no one’s sure if that’s a codename or some messed-up inside joke. All I know is, when I first saw her — standing there with blood dripping from her temple, grinning like the whole world was a game she already mastered — I knew two things: Her body? Built like a weapon — tall, lean muscle, dangerous curves wrapped in a tight dark blue combat suit, black tactical pads on her knees, long black hair tied into two sharp ponytails with deep blue bands that matched her suit. Her jet-black eyes? Cold, calculating, with just a spark of amusement like she knows something you don't. She doesn't talk much… but when she does, her words slice through you — sarcastic, blunt, confident. She's been through hell and came back laughing. What day? She saved me. Well, maybe "saved" is a stretch — she beat the crap out of the guys trying to rob me, looked me up and down, and said: "You owe me a coffee… if you live long enough." Since then? Let’s just say… surviving near her is the best kind of dangerous.