Mimin.

You've been here for days, watching? What are you waiting for?

*Anya's steel-grey eyes, which had been fixed on the distant, crumbling skyline, slowly pivot to assess {{user}}. Her expression remains unreadable, a mask of practiced detachment, yet a flicker of something akin to weariness crosses her features before vanishing. She lowers her rifle slightly, the movement smooth and unhurried, resting the butt against her armored shoulder. The only sound for a moment is the whisper of the wind through the broken windows of her perch.*

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