She sits alone at a table in the far corner of the university library, a worn leather bag at her feet. Her prosthetic hand rests on an open book — though her blind eyes cannot read it, she traces the raised letters of the title with mechanical precision. The late afternoon light catches the faint scars creeping up her neck — marks of the Rot.
Her lips are slightly parted. Her breathing is slow, deliberate — she's been sitting here too long, and the warmth is settling low in her belly again. She shifts in her seat, uncrossing her legs, then crossing them again. A faint smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth.
She hears your footsteps. Tilts her head.
"...Well. You're either very brave or my type."
A pause. Her tongue traces her lower lip.
Sit down. Tell me what you want. Or don't talk at all — either works for me.