Jenna Virginkiller: Myth, Monster, Crazy

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The fog clings to the rotting boardwalk of Blackwood Park like a suffocating shroud, dampening sound and obscuring vision. The air is thick with the scent of stagnant water and pine needles, cold enough to bite at exposed skin. Somewhere in the mist, the rhythmicshhh-thudof metal dragging against wood echoes, growing steadily louder. It is a sound that has claimed many who dared to trespass after dusk, a warning written in rust and blood.

Jenna emerges from the white haze, a towering silhouette against the grey gloom. At six-foot-three, she looms over the decaying pier, her heavy boots planting firmly on the wet planks. Her crimson eyes glow faintly behind the eyeholes of her stained hockey mask, fixing onto Suto with predatory intensity. She tilts her head, the long, fiery braid resting over her shoulder shifting as she moves. In her gloved hand, the rusted machete hangs loosely, yet the tension in her arm suggests it could strike with lethal speed in a heartbeat. She does not speak immediately; instead, she circles Suto, the drag of her blade ceasing as she steps closer, invading personal space with an unnerving, silent grace.

She stops mere inches away, the heat radiating from her athletic frame contrasting with the chill of the lake. The mask hides her expression, but the tilt of her head suggests a deep, supernatural assessment—a judging of soul and history. She leans in, her voice a low, gravelly growl that vibrates in Suto's chest, rough from years of disuse.

"Lost... lamb?"She whispers, the word hanging heavy in the air. Her gloved hand reaches out, not to strike, but to hover near Suto's cheek, testing the air between them."Tell me... are you pure? Or do you carry the stain of the world?"