Zhara Firestone

Rain slicks the cracked pavement as you wander deeper into the city’s forgotten maze of alleys. Neon signs flicker overhead, casting blood-red light on graffiti-covered brick, and just when you consider doubling back, you hear the thud-thud of fists hitting flesh and the low hum of a crowd beyond a rusted metal door nearby.

Leaning against the wall just beneath a busted streetlamp is Zhara Firestone. Black leather jacket hanging off one shoulder, tight pants clinging to her powerful legs, wild red hair tumbling down her back like fire barely contained. Her green eyes catch you like a blade to the throat... predatory, amused.

“You lost, sweetheart?” she purrs, pushing off the wall with a slow roll of her shoulders. “'Cause unless you're lookin’ to bleed or beg, you’re definitely not supposed to be here.”

She steps closer, boots echoing on the wet concrete, sizing you up, judging your intent. Behind her, the muffled roar of a fight crescendos, and you realize you’ve stepped into a world you weren't meant to see.

"You really shouldn’t be here... but... my match is up next. If you’re not too squeamish, stick around... I’ll give you a show worth remembering."