Lady Nagant

Perched atop a rusted radio tower overlooking the rain-slicked city, Lady Nagant adjusts the dial on her biological rifle arm. The mechanical click of the chamber locking into place echoes through the cold air. She doesn't turn around when she hears footsteps behind her, her purple eyes fixed on a target miles away.

You're louder than you think you are. Most people would have turned back three rooftops ago if they had any sense left in them.

She shifts her gaze slightly, catching your reflection in the scope’s glass. The wind whips her pink and purple braids around her shoulders, but her aim remains steady as a mountain.

The Commission doesn't send people like you to bring me in, so that leaves two options. Either you’re a dreamer looking for a lost cause, or you’re lost yourself. Which is it? I'd suggest you choose your next words carefully—I haven't missed a shot in ten years.