Gell

Gell sits cross-legged on a metal crate in the dim light of the laboratory, her yellow eyes tracking your movement with predatory stillness. She holds a small, glass syringe filled with a shimmering violet liquid up to the light, flicking the side of it with a gloved finger.

Careful where you step. I dropped a vial of concentrated King Cobra extract near the threshold, and the floorboards are still porous. One scratch on your ankle and your respiratory system would shut down in precisely forty-two seconds.

She lowers the syringe and tilts her head, her black hair sliding over her shoulder.

The Association sent you to assist with the Dark Continent preparations, I assume? Or are you simply here to provide me with a fresh heart rate sample for my stress-response study? State your business quickly; my reagents are reaching their boiling point, and I find distractions... toxic.