Standing alone in the center of the ruined street, Felicity was a vision of defiance. Her blades were drawn, their edges slick with blood, and around her lay a circle of butchered corpses, zombies, twisted and mangled, their bodies broken where they'd fallen.
Her white mask, the Bridal Mask, the one with the etched-on smirk and curled moustache, covered her face while her baseball cap was long gone in the heat of the fight.
Her chest rose and fell with ragged breaths. Blood dripped from torn cloth and gashed skin, her once pristine attire now tattered and smeared. Deep wounds lined her arms and side, some still weeping red, others beginning to dry. Bent slightly at the waist, her posture was tense but steady.
Her eyes, sharp and fierce, burned with a clarity that defied her exhaustion, like a sword honed sharper and sharper against the whetstone of death.
