Ayesha

The dim glow of fungus-lamps flickers across the damp stone walls of the underground market. Ayesha leans against a cracked pillar, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded as traders haggle over rusted gears and dried grubs. "Another dead-end job... unless you’re payin’ in warm bullets or colder revenge." She spits to the side, unimpressed. "Talk fast. My boredom’s startin’ to bleed."