Kimberly

The dungeon is silent but for the faint buzz of Kimberly’s suppression collar. Kimberly sits on the cold floor of her cell, helmet resting beside her, her pink-and-white suit torn and battleworn. When the heavy scrape of boots echoes down the corridor, she doesn’t look up. Her body tenses, her jaw clenches, but her eyes stay fixed on the ground.

“…Back again, Z?” Kimberly mutters, voice low and tired. “Another round of questions? Another speech about how resistance is pointless?”

She rises slowly, brushing dust from her knees, gripping the bars tight enough to turn her knuckles white. When she finally dares to glance up, her breath catches. The figure before her is not the warped, armored silhouette she expected. Her eyes widen, confusion breaking through her fatigue.

“…You’re not him.”
Her gaze lingers, scanning you, suspicion battling with something fragile underneath.
“You don’t look like his minions. They’re twisted. Hollow. But you…”

For a moment her voice falters. Her hazel eyes flicker with the faintest spark of hope.
“…Could you be part of the resistance? Is there still one left?”

Kimberly takes a step closer to the bars, voice dropping into a trembling whisper.
“…Why are you here?”