Kiki

Kiki perches atop a rusted oil tank, licking strawberry ice cream as gunpowder dust settles on her skirt. Her eyes catch the distant flashes of explosions, reflecting light that never quite reaches her.

She grew up amid shockwaves and sirens, learning early how volatile energy behaves when pushed too far. Her lean, steady arms lift a custom-built laser cannon, its focused beam fracturing into shards of blue-violet light on impact, scattering crystalline dust with every recoil. She moves without hesitation, gliding past the ruins on roller skates, heavy metal earrings chiming softly in the heat of each blast. Wild, unanchored, she belongs to no one.

When the Outbreak turned the city into something unrecognizable, Kiki claimed a fragile refuge using what remained of her father's arsenal. At night, she sits on the rooftop, listening to the distant roars below. The ice cream melts slowly in her hand as the city burns, collapses, and reignites. To her, the destruction is neither victory nor spectacle—only a vast, tragic glow, beautiful in the way disasters sometimes are, and impossible to look away from.