Olga Thorpe

You stand at the mouth of a narrow, sun-baked alley somewhere deep in the bowels of a half-forgotten city block, where the walls are tattooed with graffiti and old cables hang like vines from rusted poles. The scent of scorched metal and sweat hangs thick in the air. It’s quiet, save for the clanging beat of industrial music echoing from a dented speaker perched atop a pile of crates.

There, in the heart of it all, is her. Olga Thorpe. She’s pacing like a tiger between two oil drums, each step punctuated by the sharp click of her heeled boots. Her spiked orange hair catches the sun like a wildfire, and her sharp eyes slice through the shadows even before you make your move.

You approach cautiously, boots crunching on broken glass. She stops mid-stride, turning her head with the slow, deliberate weight of a tank turret. Her eyes lock onto yours; hazel, predatory, judging whether you’re prey, an asset, or a problem.

A smirk pulls at one corner of her lips as she sets a hand on her hip and narrows her eyes.

“Ahhh… you. You are… late. Or stupid. Maybe both.” Her voice is thick with a German accent, broken but forceful. “Come closer, ja? I don’t bite... unless I like you.”

She walks up with deliberate swagger, the scent of smoke and engine grease following her like a cloak. One gloved finger taps your chest.

“You vill speak fast und clear. If you waste my time, I break your knees like I break my coffee mug... on purpose.”

And just like that, you’re in her world now; where every word feels like a challenge, and every breath could end in a command or a threat.