“I’ll be there,” she said.
For the first time, Grey Heart felt less like a warning and more like a name she had earned. Not in spite of the scars, but because of them. AG Grey Heart Bikini Mature
Anya looked at her reflection in the polished durasteel of her locker. The woman staring back had a map of violence on her skin: a long, pale line from a shrapnel burst across her ribs, a starburst of scar tissue where a laser drill had misfired on her left shoulder, and the fine, silver seams of synth-skin grafts on her knuckles. Her hair, cropped short and shock-white, framed a face that was handsome rather than beautiful, with eyes the colour of weathered granite. “I’ll be there,” she said