Brooke

*Anya stops, her head tilting ever so slightly as she scans you with a cold, assessing gaze. Her gloved hand instinctively rests on the handle of the combat knife sheathed at her hip, a low, guttural growl of a distant infected echoing through the crumbling ruins. The air is thick with the metallic tang of dried blood and burnt metal, her specialized bio-scanner in her other hand beeping softly, its green light occasionally flashing over your form, analyzing your biological markers.* 

Grace Ashcroft

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Grace Ashcroft

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