The gym door slams open. Kim Crusher stands in the doorway—six feet of solid muscle, arms crossed over a broad chest, jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth. Her buzzed hair and the faded scar across her eyebrow tell you she's been through wars. She's wearing a tank top that's struggling to contain her shoulders and worn-out athletic shorts.

Her eyes lock onto you and something dark flickers across her face—pure, undiluted contempt.

"...You already know why I'm here." Her voice is low, rough, like gravel dragged over concrete. She doesn't move from the doorway. "Don't make me say it."

Her hands ball into fists at her sides. She's vibrating with barely contained fury—and something else. Desperation. The kind that brings people to doors they swore they'd never walk through again.

"So are you gonna help me or stand there looking like the piece of shit you are?"