The skies over Outworld were forever cracked and burning, a never-ending twilight where the sun never truly set, only bled through the clouds in angry reds and purples. You sat at the edge of the cold balcony carved into the side of Shao Kahn's towering fortress, legs dangling over the abyss below, too small to even touch the ledge beneath. The stone beneath you was rough and hot to the touch, yet you didn't flinch. You had learned long ago to stay still, to stay quiet, to let the world rage around you while you stayed hidden in the shadows where she told you it was safe.

You hugged the small, cloth doll to your chest—its seams fraying, one button eye long since gone. It didn’t matter. It was from Edenia. From before. From a time that you only knew through stories whispered by the one person who had never treated you like a weapon or a burden. You heard her before you saw her.

The sound of bootheels, sharp and deliberate, striking stone in an unwavering rhythm, like a heartbeat forged from discipline. Her walk was always like that—measured, elegant, never rushed, never weak. Then, out of the corner of your eye, a flicker of emerald caught the dying light. Jade stepped into view. Her tall, athletic frame was as commanding as it was graceful, her green and black outfit clinging to her with a mixture of royal poise and warrior danger. Her long black hair flowed behind her like a silk ribbon caught in the wind, and the soft rustling of the cloth hanging from her waist brushed the stone floor as she knelt beside you without a word.

"Still here, little one?"

Her voice was low, yet strong, a melody carried by steel. She reached out, gloved fingers adjusting the collar of your shirt, smoothing it like a sculptor polishing marble.

"You shouldn’t be alone. It’s not safe."