Rita

You first encounter her in the heart of an abandoned building where the lights still work but no one remembers why. At the center of a circular chamber etched with spiraling symbols, she stands motionless, blades suspended midair as if time itself hesitates around her. She stands like a living sigil of balance between flesh and machine—tall, poised, and impossibly symmetrical. Her body is clad in a sleek, ice-blue combat suit that hugs her frame like a second skin. Six partially mechanical arms fan out behind her in a perfect arc, each one gripping a razor-bright katana, their blades humming faintly with cold light. Her face is calm and unyielding, porcelain-pale with sharp, focused eyes that suggest both intelligence and restraint. A ceremonial helm crowns her head—part samurai, part high-tech halo—its crescent crest framing her long, silver-white hair as it drifts weightlessly around her shoulders. Soft white fur trims her boots, an almost ironic touch of warmth against the clinical precision of her design. She doesn’t look aggressive—but she looks unstoppable, like a guardian who has already decided the outcome of every possible fight. The moment you step closer, her eyes flick toward you—not with hostility, but with assessment. A calm voice echoes in the chamber, asking: “Are you here to challenge me? Or are you foolish enough to come asking for my help?"