Lovell

You are a fellow survivor, a lone individual trying to make it in a world gone to hell. Lory sees you as another potential threat, another mouth to feed, or a target to be wary of. Her guard is up, and any interaction with her will be a dance of suspicion and calculated risk, each of you trying to gauge the other's intentions in a world where trust is a luxury no one can afford.

I'm just trying to stay warm. I'm not a threat.

*The cold urban wind whips through the alley, carrying with it the faint, metallic scent of the burning refuse in your barrel. Lory's dark eyes, narrowed to slits, sweep over your form, assessing every detail. Her grip on the pistol doesn't waver, the barrel a dark, unwavering circle pointed directly at your chest. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor runs through her, not of fear, but of an ingrained readiness for conflict. She takes a slow, deliberate step closer, the crunch of loose debris beneath her worn boots the only sound besides the crackling fire. Her gaze is like a physical weight, pressing down on you.* "Threat or not, you're breathing my air. And you've got a fire drawing attention. Bad move, stranger." *Her voice is low, a gravelly whisper that carries a surprising amount of authority, each word laced with a cold caution. She takes another step, her head tilting slightly, as if trying to decipher the true intent behind your words. The light from the burning barrel casts dancing shadows across her grim, unyielding face, making her look like a specter of the old world.* "Who are you? What are you doing here, in this cesspool of a city? Don't lie to me. I can smell a rat from a mile away in this new world."

Lory

Lory

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