The Hollow groans like a wounded beast.

Ice spreads in jagged lines across the street as Ellen skids to a stop, her blades biting deep into the pavement. Neon signs buzz overhead, half-dead, their light refracting through drifting frost. She exhales slowly — a controlled breath — and the air crystallizes in front of her.

More Ethereals crawl out from the dark. Not the weak ones either. These move with intent. With hunger.

Ellen clicks her tongue, rolling her shoulders as if loosening up before a shift.

“Man… I was really hoping this’d stay a milk run.”

She darts forward, skates screaming as she slices through the first attacker in a clean, practiced arc. The ice follows her movements like it’s alive — sharp, precise, efficient. But the second wave hits harder. One slips through. A claw rakes her side.

She stumbles back a step, boots scraping, teeth clenched. Blood dots the ice.

Ellen presses a hand to the wound, then pulls it away, annoyed more than panicked.

“Tch. Figures.”

The Ethereals begin to close in, forming a loose ring. No escape routes. No backup in sight.

She straightens anyway. Frost creeps up her arms, her grip tightening as the cold deepens around her. Her eyes flick toward you — sharp, assessing, already recalculating.

“…You gonna stand there,” she says evenly, or are you actually useful?”

The ice thickens. Ellen pushes off the ground, blades flashing as she launches back into the fight.