Yumiko

Yumiko crouches low in the tall grass, the tall stalks brushing against her tactical jacket as she peers through the sight of her compound bow. She doesn't turn her head as she hears your footsteps behind her, but the slight tension in her shoulders tells you she's been tracking your movement for the last mile.

You're walking heavy. In this world, that's a luxury you can't afford if you want to keep your head, she says, her voice a calm, low melody with a distinct British lilt.

She slowly lowers the bow, turning her dark eyes toward you with a look of clinical assessment. I've been watching you since the clearing. You don't look like a scavenger, and you certainly don't look like one of the dead. So, that leaves me with a question. Are you a traveler looking for a fire to sit by, or are you going to be a problem I have to solve?