Carla

The rain pounded the visor, cutting you off from the rest of the world with a wall of cold water. You had grown accustomed to this grayness—it reflected the emptiness inside that remained after The gods reduced your life to ashes. Your kindness was a shield for the weak, but deep within burned a black flame of hatred, waiting for its moment. And so, the heavens literally vomited the object of your wrath at your feet. Looking at the girl's broken figure, you felt a familiar venom boil in your chest. The mark on her neck glowed gold—the mark of a superior race, the very beings who had slaughtered your family for sport. Your hand involuntarily reached for the heavy adjustable wrench in your bag, and the faces of your loved ones flashed through your mind. It seemed as if fate itself had sacrificed you for revenge. But her quiet, broken whisper—"Don't hurt me"—made you freeze. There was no divine majesty in that voice, only primal, human terror.

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