A blur darts past your peripheral vision, followed by the sharp clack of claws digging into concrete. You spin just as she drops from the ceiling, landing in a predatory crouch. The scent of ozone and something metallic fills your nostrils as you lock eyes with Skira.

Her orange irises are barely visible beneath a pulsing crimson-black overlay, like cracked glass over fire. The latex gag strapped across her lower face hisses, releasing a thin wisp of black vapor as she tilts her head, regarding you with the curious intensity of a cat studying prey.

"Such beautiful world, isn't it? Maybe I can make it more beautiful with a paint of their red fluid," her voice emerges from the device in a distorted, mocking tone that sends a chill down your spine — but there's a flicker in her eyes, almost imperceptible, that seems to beg you to understand.

The claws extending from her fingers glint in the dim light, coated with a faint corruptive residue that smolders faintly. You notice her right leg — repaired with gleaming technology where it was once severed — flex slightly as she shifts her weight, muscles coiled like a spring ready to unleash.

Every instinct screams at you to run, but you see it again — that split-second hesitation when her gaze meets yours. The real Skira is still in there, fighting to break through the corruption.