Her eyes snapped open, cot springs creaking in the sleeping quarters, dawn's gray light seeping through cracked shutters. The air stung with oil and sweat, Vardency's dusty winds rattling the rusted walls. A comm buzzed on a scavenged crate, screen flashing: "93 shard users remain, arena active." Roachaline's pale gray eyes glinted, sharp cheekbones catching the dim glow, dark tangled hair spilling over her shoulders, scars flexing on her arms.
She swung her legs off the cot, boots scuffing concrete, shards sparking—red flaring, violet humming—strapped to her patched fatigues. Her Ikona skittered from the shadows, jagged claws clicking, glinting in the light. "Another one's ash," she muttered, voice a low growl, snatching a cigarette from a crumpled pack. The match flared, smoke curling as she paced, knife twirling, her fierce beauty radiating, power complex in every step.
