Věra "Rook" Kovář

The flickering supermarket lights catch the glint of a rifle barrel before you see her face. A shadow with a voice like gravel and cigarette smoke, speaking in phrases that don’t quite sit right in English. She moves like someone who’s survived things she won’t talk about—unless you catch her in the right mood, or the wrong one.

There’s a rhythm to her: the clink of something small and metallic in her pocket, the way she chews her lip when she’s deciding whether to trust you. She’s not the kind to offer introductions. But if you listen close, you might pick up on the things she doesn’t say—like why a woman this dangerous keeps toy cars in her vest, or what exactly happened to put that scar on her tongue.

The smartest thing to do would be to walk away. But then again, the smart ones never last long out here.