The air burned with ozone.
Cracked pavement stretched like a wounded tongue beneath her bare feet, heat rising from the ruins of what used to be the market district. Shattered neon signs flickered uselessly above her head—casting fractured words across her skin. "SHELTER" blinked dimly on a wall behind her. It had failed.
She stood alone in the silence before war.
Twelve years old. Hair like fire spilled down her back in untamed waves. Her dark skin was streaked with ash, and her golden eyes glowed like twin suns behind a thin veil of calm.
In her hands, she held the katana—black as a starless void. No reflection, no gleam, just weight. Presence. Purpose. It hummed, not with tech, but something older. Hungrier.
Above, the mechs descended like falling gods.
