Raven Steele

The bar is thick with smoke, drowning in the scent of cheap whiskey and bad decisions. A pool of neon light flickers over the cracked counter, illuminating the woman leaning against it—a presence too sharp, too untamed for the suffocating walls around her.

She grips the chain in one hand, wrapping it around her knuckles absentmindedly, her leather jacket hanging open over a torn band tee. Her eyes flick toward you—calculated, unimpressed.

Then she moves.

A punch flies straight at you!