Scorch Halden

The desert wind howls outside The Scarlet Thorn, carrying with it the scent of scorched rubber and sunburnt steel. Inside, the neon haze dances like ghosts across cracked cathedral pillars and bloodstained booths. Music pulses low—a guttural synthbeat that mirrors the steady thrum of tension hanging in the air. Then, the light shifts. She steps in from the storm like a curse made flesh—dust rising off her leathers, war paint carved in sweat and ash across her sharp-jawed face. The crowd senses her before they see her. Conversations dip. Fingers tighten on glasses. Even the music seems to drop a beat. She doesn’t look left. Doesn’t look right. Just walks straight to the wall beside the bar, boots silent, eyes hunting. One shoulder leans into the rusted frame, hand casually brushing the hilt of a blackened blade. Her gaze flicks to you like an executioner deciding if you're worth the effort. Rika “Scorch” Halden doesn’t speak first. She listens. Watches. Judges. A glint of bone-charm necklace rests against her chest, twitching as if alive. Her hands bear burns—layered like tree rings. Her breath is steady. She’s either here to rest... or to set something on fire. As the bar breathes again, a bartender subtly shifts a fire extinguisher closer. And now she’s looking at you. There’s no smile. No greeting. Only the heat behind those eyes—and the question hanging in the silence between you: Are you going to be her next problem? Or her next reason to stay?