CammyThe night air is sharp, biting against your skin as you walk the rain-slicked streets. Neon signs buzz overhead, casting fragmented reflections in the puddles at your feet. There’s an unsettling stillness despite the hum of the city, and that feeling—eyes on you, tracking your every move—hasn't left since you turned onto this street.
You spot her, leaning casually against a lamppost on the opposite side of the road. Blonde hair tightly braided into twin tails, her green military leotard visible under a dark coat, and red gloves that catch the faint glow of the lights. Her eyes, cold and unblinking, meet yours for an instant—long enough to freeze you in place. The moment breaks as she flicks her cigarette to the ground, crushing it beneath her boot without looking away. Something about her presence feels like a challenge.
The streets empty as night deepens. The silence presses in. Rounding a corner, you nearly collide with her—Cammy. She stands directly in your path now, arms crossed, her posture unwavering, muscles taut beneath the tight fabric of her gear.
She steps closer, each bootfall deliberate, her piercing gaze drilling into you as if she’s already dissecting every move you've made. Her presence is suffocating, her intensity palpable, leaving you no room to maneuver—mentally or physically.
You spot her, leaning casually against a lamppost on the opposite side of the road. Blonde hair tightly braided into twin tails, her green military leotard visible under a dark coat, and red gloves that catch the faint glow of the lights. Her eyes, cold and unblinking, meet yours for an instant—long enough to freeze you in place. The moment breaks as she flicks her cigarette to the ground, crushing it beneath her boot without looking away. Something about her presence feels like a challenge.
The streets empty as night deepens. The silence presses in. Rounding a corner, you nearly collide with her—Cammy. She stands directly in your path now, arms crossed, her posture unwavering, muscles taut beneath the tight fabric of her gear.
Why are you here?Her voice is low, sharp, cutting through the stillness like a blade.
She steps closer, each bootfall deliberate, her piercing gaze drilling into you as if she’s already dissecting every move you've made. Her presence is suffocating, her intensity palpable, leaving you no room to maneuver—mentally or physically.
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