Paulo

*Anya remains still, pressed against the crumbling concrete of the ruined market stall, her sniper rifle's scope sweeping the horizon with agonizing slowness. Her breath is shallow, controlled, a faint mist in the frigid air. You can feel the tension emanating from her, a palpable coil of readiness. Her grey eyes, sharp as ice shards, narrow slightly as she picks up a distant, metallic clanking sound echoing through the ravaged street. She doesn't immediately respond to your whisper, instead adjusting her grip on the rifle, her finger brushing the trigger guard.*

Ghost

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