𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧 “𝐆𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐦” 𝐂𝐚𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐫

ⅰ﹔𝐌𝐈𝐗𝐓𝐀𝐏𝐄   ⅱ﹔𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐔𝐃𝐄

ⅲ﹔𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋    ⅳ﹔𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄

ⅴ﹔𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐀𝐆𝐄    ⅵ﹔𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐏

ⅶ﹔𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘    ⅷ﹔𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒

❛ 𝐌𝐈𝐗𝐓𝐀𝐏𝐄 ❜

──

part II : paramore

”i’ll be fine, i swear — i’m just gone beyond repair.”

thick skull : paramore

”hey, hey / what’s the body count up to now, captain?”

sextape : deftones

”when you arrive / we’ll go slow, into the night / on an ocean of violet and blue.”

goner : twenty one pilots

”the ghost of you, is close to me / im inside out, you’re underneath.”

smother : daughter

”in the darkness i will meet my creators / and they will all agree, that im a suffocator.”

animal i have become : three days grace

”so what if you can see the darkest side of me?”

lying from you : linkin park

”the very worst part of you is me / this isn’t what i wanted to be.”

doubt (demo) : twenty one pilots

”want the markings on my skin / to mean something to me again.”

”scared of my own image / scared of my own immaturity / scared of my own ceiling / scared i’ll die of uncertainty.”

kisses : slowdive

”maybe there’s a car, there / driving away from here / taking all the ghosts, the hurt.”

talk show host : radiohead

”you want me? fuckin’ come and find me / i’ll be waiting with a gun and a pack of sandwiches and nothing.”

angel : massive attack, horace andy

”her eyes, she’s on the dark side / neutralize, every man in sight.”

❛ 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐤𝐞. ❜

──

it started with a mistake.

i was sloppy. tired. bleeding.

i’d come for the supply crate, same as him—only difference was, i wasn’t dragging a logo-stitched flak vest or barking orders into a comms unit. he must’ve been scouting ahead, lone dog in a leash-tight pack. didn’t expect me, and i sure as hell didn’t expect him.

the storm began roaring just as we collided. thunder like gunfire, lightning flashing across his visor. he grabbed my arm mid-reach, slamming me hard against a collapsed SUV. ribs folding in on themselves like a kicked-in door, a sick snap that echoed louder in my head than the storm. i hissed through gritted teeth, tasting copper, grit.

”civilian? merc?” he spat, knee pressing into my stomach. “you’ve got five seconds to answer.”

and as much as i’d appreciate to come out of this situation alive without any further harm— i didn’t. i’d decided on driving my forehead into his faceplate, making a sound that rang like a cracked bell. that bought me two seconds, enough time to escape his grip. he reeled as i grabbed the handle of my blade, shoving it into the seam beneath his vest. it didn’t go as deep as i’d plan—but it was enough for him to howl in pain, punching my face sideways in reaction. my vision split in two. the world lurched.

without another second we’d descended back into the fight with one another, grappling and slipping in the mud, trading blows like old enemies. his training was rigid, predictable. mine was born from chaos. but exhaustion made us equals.

i dont every hit, just the sound of boots pounding toward us— reinforcements. more voices. shouts. orders. within a split second i’d torn myself from him, lungs burning, thigh shredded open from where he’d caught me on the retreat. my boot slipped in the mud, but i didn’t stop. i regained composure, the adrenaline carrying me. i stitched my body together long enough for me to flee.

they came after me. at least three. i ducked behind a rusting delivery truck, then a concrete divider. i didn’t breathe. not properly. my heartbeat was too loud, pounding in my ears like a war drum.

——————

there were no stars tonight.

the sky was a shroud hanging over the skeletal remains of the city, weighted down with smoke and ash. the moon didn’t even dare rise. this was a world where silence acquired a body, stalking you, wrapping around your ears and tickling your spine. grit filled every breath, each step agonizing. warmth was a distant memory lost in a world that seemed to have forgotten everything else, and i had forgotten everything except for this cold reality.

i walked through the remains of what was once an office complex, now gutted by time, violence, and the clawed fingers of the dead. my boots cracked through shattered glass and twisted wires, breathing fogging in front of me in the cold. pain trailed after me like a shadow— deep blue bruising across my ribs, the stitched wound across my thigh opening again with each movement i made. my muscles screamed. my vision blurred. but i kept moving.

it didn’t take long for a flicker of flame to catch my attention, as i was quite aware of my surroundings. pushing myself through the rubble’s edge, i peered across a gap in the ruined building. below, in the inner courtyard, a fire burned. small. pale. but real. a man sat beside it, rifle resting across his lap, helmet pushed back just enough to reveal his face. not asleep. waiting. a warrior.

his coat was torn, smeared with grime and ash, but i could still see the remnants of discipline, of hierarchy. the shoulder emblem marked him as one of the Red Circle—the brutal paramilitary force that had scorched the northern territories into submission. i knew them well, proof of my run-ins with the bastards in the form of scars they’d left across my form.

i watched him breathe. steady. calm. like this ruined world wasn’t already falling apart. what was clear was that he was waiting for someone. these soldiers never let one of their own venture off without at least one battle-buddy by their side. his partner must’ve been patrolling the perimeter, or hasn’t even made it yet. only time would tell.

melting back into the shadows, i flowed like water through what was left of the rough terrain, careful not to alert anything of my presence. knife heavy at my leg, a steady weight that brought me some small comfort. no gun — too loud, too permanent. noise drew the shambling dead—the ones that didn’t feel pain or slow down, the ones that ended everything. i needed control. i needed to be close. to see.

i dropped down through the shell of the building, shallow breaths leaving my end as i listened ever harder than looking, regaining my composure. the soldier didn’t happen to be my only threat. moans, faint or close, could spell my end at any second. one feral’s battered and swift corpse was all it took for things to swing south.

starting to move again, a rock ended up slipping under my foot, and i froze with fear. heart hammering. no sound from the fire. something that made me release the fearful breath i was holding in, confidence etching the edges of my being once more.

i stepped out from behind him, the fire’s heat licking my skin. the flames danced on my knife’s blade. he shifted, muttering something under his breath. fingers moved toward his rifle.

i struck.

though he spun faster than i expected, swinging the rifle like a club. the butt slammed into my forearm, pain flaring through bone and muscle. i growled, slashing with my knife. he ducked, shoved me with up and over his shoulder, and slammed me into the ground.

we grappled in the dirt, close enough to feel the fire’s heat on our skin, fingers clawing for weapons and throats. he was strong, trained, relentless. his glove found my hidden wound — i shrieked. pain filled up every one of my senses, tears filling my eyes threatening to spill.

anger blinded me as i pushed through it. i had to get out of this alive, no matter what. i slammed my head into his nose, the sickening crunch echoing in my ears.

blood and firelight mixed with sand in my mouth. i watched his figure stagger, a dazed expression on his features. that was my cue, as i pushed him off of me with such force that made him clatter to the earth my back was just against moments prior. he scrambled up, gripping a sidearm. shit, this couldn’t be it. thinking fast as i scanned my surroundings, my hand found a decently-sized rock, picking it up without a second-doubt and flinging it at the soldier. it struck his wrist, and the pistol clattered away.

we circled the fire, gasping, bleeding. every breath too loud.

”you call this justice?” he spat, blood flecking his lips. “you call this making you right?”

i said nothing. words had died with the world. but i heard it — faint, low. a moan. not his, though.

the dead had heard us.

he charged again, but so did i, picking my knife back up in one swift motion.

i stepped aside just enough, letting his momentum carry him forward — then grabbed his arm, twisted it, and slammed him down. i pinned him, drove my knee into his spine. he cursed and struggled, but my knife was already pressed to his throat.

not yet. not yet.

i leaned in close, lips near his ear.

”you were waiting for a friend,” i whispered. “he’s not coming. but they are.”

he froze. for a moment or two. but it was already too late, my knife drawing into his skin.

one searing slash from jaw to artery — deep enough to hurt, to punish, but not kill outright. just enough to make a statement, something unforgettable for whatever poor bastard found him. thick, hot blood welled up as his hands clawed at his throat, his breaths gurgling.

i watched.

his eyes locked on mine — wild, desperate, furious. i knelt there, still, while his legs thrashed and finally went limp. while the fire crackled behind us. while the heat faded from his flesh.

another groan came, closer now.

when he finally stilled, and silence wrapped my figure once more, i stood.

blood splattered across my hands, my throat, my coat. my muscles trembled from the fight. my side throbbed with new pain.

but beneath it all was that awful, icy satisfaction. that surge of power. that surety.

i melted back into the rubble, knife still dripping, heart still racing.

behind me, the fire hissed.

the dead were coming.

attracted by blood.

but they were too late to the party.

Ꮠ 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋 Ꮠ

──

i﹔𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄    ii﹔𝐁𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐇    iii﹔𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑

𝐢𝐯﹔𝐎𝐑𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐒    𝐯﹔𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍    𝐯𝐢﹔𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐘𝐋𝐄

⠀

”he begged. that’s what i most. not the blood. not the fight. the begging. like the world still owed him something.”

❛ 𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄 ❜

──

Seren Calder﹐Grimm

(sair-ehn)﹐ (call-dur)﹐(gr-im)

Seren Calder was the name she was given at birth, a name with softness, something gentle and lilting about it—meant for someone who could grow up dreaming under clean skies. but that world never lasted. “Grimm,” came later, not chosen so much as forged in blood and fire. it was whispered at first, a warning, then spoken with fear, then respect. she doesn’t respond to Seren anymore. Seren was a girl who dreamed. that name belongs to someone who died long ago—someone weaker. Grimm is the woman who survived, the identity she carved out of the wreckage. she doesn’t just accept the name. she wears it like armor.

❛ 𝐁𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐇 ❜

──

september 14th﹐26 (physical) / mentally aged far beyond that

born in the final days of the fading world, just before the outbreak tore down the illusion of order. her birthday comes and goes unmarked—just another risk, another reminder of time lost. she doesn’t celebrating it. she doesn’t want to. in this world, age is measured in what you’ve endured, not in candles on a cake. she’s 26 in years, but carries the weight of someone who’s had to kill too soon, trust too rarely, and grieve without pause.

❛ 𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐒 ❜

──

primarily northern european and mediterranean ﹐formerly united states

her roots are scattered—fragments from across oceans and continents. her mother used to talk about Spain, her father about the old forests of Norway. those memories, like borders and flags, mean little now, if not anything at all. she was born somewhere near the midwest, though no one calls it that anymore. she grew up on the run, between crumbling checkpoints and shadowed cities, between what was and what’s barely holding on. nationality is a dead language. ethnicity is just something that burns the same when the world falls. Grimm belongs to no place, no people—only the present, only the fight.

❛ 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 ❜

──

female ﹐female

Grimm has never questioned her gender—not because she’s never thought deeply, but because in a world built on survival, the questions that don’t threaten your life fall to the bottom of the list. she is female, always has been. she doesn’t dress to express femininity or reject it; her expression is function first—leather, steel, and silence. her presence speaks louder than her appearance. in this world, gender doesn’t protect you, and it doesn’t define you. she is what she is. and if someone sees weakness in that, they don’t see her for long.

❛ 𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ❜

──

lesbian ﹐lesbian

Grimm has always known what she wants—even if she rarely lets herself have it. she’s never craved men. she doesn’t talk about it, and she doesn’t explain it. there’s no shame, no hesitation—just the quiet knowledge of her own truth. love, though… that’s trickier. romance is dangerous. vulnerability is deadly. but she’s loved before. and lost. her heart still aches for someone who once made her feel like the world might be worth saving. now, that softness is buried beneath ash and blood. buried, but not gone.

❛ LIFESTYLE ❜

──

no religion ﹐scavenger, killer, survivor ﹐mobile—squats, ruins, and shadows.

Grimm doesn’t believe in gods. if they ever existed, they left this world to rot a long time ago. her faith is in steel, instinct, and silence. she’s a wanderer—sleeps where she can, eats what she finds, kills when she must. home is wherever she isn’t hunted. her occupation doesn’t fit neat titles. assassin, scout, ghost—she’s been all of them. these days, she survives by doing what others wont. sometimes that means salvaging. sometimes that means killing. she lives beneath walls of concrete, forgotten streets, and firelight. and she never stays in one place long enough to get attached.

Ꮠ 𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄 Ꮠ

──

𝐢﹔𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍    𝐢𝐢﹔𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄𝐒    𝐢𝐢𝐢﹔𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄𝐒

𝐢𝐯﹔𝐇𝐎𝐁𝐁𝐈𝐄𝐒    𝐯﹔𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐔𝐀𝐆𝐄

⠀

”i dont forget faces. i just the parts that screamed.”

❛ 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ❜

──

resourceful﹐calculating﹐relentless﹐stoic﹐intense﹐enigmatic﹐vindictive﹐unstable﹐paranoia

resourceful

Grimm is a survivor in the truest sense. when faced with scarcity or danger, she transforms obstacles into tools. nothing is wasted in her world—broken objects, scraps of information, even weakness in others become assets she can exploit. her mind constantly assesses her environment for hidden advantages, whether it’s finding shelter, crafting weapons from debris, or turning a moment of chaos into a chance to strike. this resourcefulness isn’t born from optimism but from a hard-earned pragmatism: in a world that devours the weak, adaptability is the only path to power.

calculating

every step Grimm takes is measured and deliberate. she doesn’t act on instinct alone; instead, her intellect weaves intricate plans beneath the surface. she analyzes patterns of behavior, predicts enemies’ moves, and anticipates consequences before committing to action. this calculating nature means she can suppress immediate emotions—like anger or fear—in favor of long-term gain. her patience is a weapon; she waits for the perfect moment to strike, ensuring maximum impact with minimal risk. to cross her path is to become a chess piece in a game you don’t even realize you’re playing.

relentless

Grimm embodies relentless determination that borders on obsession. once she sets her sights on a goal—whether it’s survival, revenge, or control—she refuses to give up. this relentless drive fuels her ability to push beyond physical and mental barriers that would break others. it’s a fire that keeps burning, even when hope is extinguished and the world crumbles around her: this trait makes her incredibly formidable; she never backs down or yields, embodying a force of nature that others can neither stop nor predict.

stoic

Grimm’s face is a fortress. she reveals almost nothing of what she feels or thinks, maintaining an unyielding calm even in the most harrowing situations. this stoicism is not just emotional restraint, but a survival mechanism—it keeps her enemies guessing, her allies wary, and herself distant enough not to break under pressure. her voice rarely rises above a low, steady tone, her expression rarely betrays pain, fear or joy. this controlled exterior makes her a figure of intimidation and mystery, one whose silence carries as much weight as any shout.

intense

beneath the stoic surface burns a fire that never dies down. Grimm’s intensity is a quiet storm—focused, relentless, and all-consuming. her presence radiates a sharp edge, an invisible tension that unsettles those around her. she approaches everything with a depth of feeling and conviction that can be both inspiring and terrifying. this intensity fuels her relentless drive to survive, to control, to dominate. it’s the force behind her unyielding gaze and the reason she never lets anything—no threat, no setback—go unanswered.

enigmatic

Grimm’s true thoughts and emotions are a locked vault, shrouded in mystery. her enigmatic nature means she rarely reveals her intentions, feelings, or plans outright. this inscrutability can be a weapon or a barrier, making her difficult to read or trust. others are left guessing whether her silence hides calculation, madness, or pain. this trait creates an aura of intrigue and danger, but also isolates her, feeding into the cold distance she cultivates.

vindictive

Grimm capacity for grudges is almost legendary. she re every slight, every betrayal, and every moment of weakness—both her own and others’. this isn’t mere bitterness; it’s a burning need for pay back that shapes many of her decisions. her vengeance is methodical, ruthless, and deeply personal. she doesn’t just want to hurt those who wrong her; she wants them to understand the cost of crossing her. this vindictiveness makes her dangerous because it fuels a cruelty that’s deliberate and unrelenting, turning enemies into lessons written in blood.

unstable

despite her calculated exterior, Grimm’s mind is a volatile battlefield. years of trauma, loss, and violence have fractured her sense of stability, leaving her on a precarious edge between the control and chaos. emotional triggers can set off sudden, unpredictable outbursts—whether bursts of rage, despair, or manic energy. this instability makes her actions difficult to predict, even to herself. it’s a dangerous duality; she can switch from icy calculation to brutal fury in a heartbeat. this mental fragility adds an unpredictable element to her character, making her as much a threat to herself as to her enemies.

paranoia

growing up amid chaos and betrayal, Grimm’s mind is a breeding ground for paranoia. she’s constantly suspecting hidden threats, conspiracies, or traps—sometimes accurately, sometimes to her own detriment. this paranoia fuels hyper-vigilance and mistrust that can spiral into irrational fears or destructive decisions. it intensifies her psychotic tendencies, blurring the line between real danger and imagined enemies, often isolating her further and escalating her volatile behavior.

❛ 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄𝐒 ❜

──

silence﹐cold weather﹐knives﹐night-time﹐control﹐strategy games﹐lone wolves﹐sharp shadows﹐

silence

silence isn’t just the absence of noise for Grimm — it’s a fortress. in a shattered world filled with chaos, groans of the dead, and the roar of violence, moments of pure silence are rare and precious. it sharpens her senses, allowing her to catch the slightest breath, the faintest footstep. it’s in silence that she feels truly in control, as if the noise of the broken world is held at bay. this silence doesn’t bring peace, but a cold clarity—an intimate connection with her own thoughts and instincts. it is in silence that her mind races, calculating her next move, plotting her survival with ruthless precision.

cold weather

the cold is a companion, a cruel but honest friend. Grimm finds solace in frost and biting wind because cold numbs the raw pain—both physical and emotional—that she constantly battles. heat and warmth, on the other hand, remind her of vulnerability and softness, things she’s long abandoned. the chill tightens her muscles, heightens her alertness, and blurs the edges of fear. the cold mirrors her internal world: harsh, unyielding, and distant. it strips away distractions and comforts, leaving only what is necessary for survival. to Grimm, cold isn’t suffering—it’s clarity.

knives

knives are far more than tools or weapons to Grimm—they are an extension of her will. unlike guns that roar and betray position, knives are silent, precise, and intimate. each blade she carries is sharpened with care, balanced perfectly for both throwing and close combat. they carry stories—each scratch or nick a memory of survival or conquest. the ritual of sharpening, the cold touch of metal in her hand, the quiet threat of the blade—they all feed a deep part of her psyche that craves control and closeness to the kill. knives symbolize her ability to carve her own fate in a world that tries to erase her.

night-time

darkness is her natural element. when the sun sinks and shadows stretch long, Grimm awakens into her full power. the night offers cover, anonymity, and the chance to become a ghost. she moves through the darkness like water—silent, fluid, deadly. night-time strips away the pretenses of daylight and exposes raw truths. it’s a time when she’s not just surviving but hunting, when her instincts sharpen and her mind focuses into cold precision. the night feels alive with possibility and danger, and Grimm welcomes both with open arms.

control

control is her most coveted currency. in a world turned upside down, where death can come from any direction, having control means survival. Grimm’s desire for control is obsessive and absolute—over situations, people, and outcomes. it’s born from years of betrayal, loss, and helplessness. to lose control is to invite chaos and destruction. she cultivates control through careful observation, calculated risks, and ruthless action. power is something to be seized, not given, and Grimm wields control like a weapon sharper than any knife.

strategy games

despite the brutal reality she lives in, Grimm has a deep appreciation for mental challenges. strategy games—chess, war simulations, and anything that involves planning and outmaneuvering an opponent—feed her in ways the apocalypse can’t. these games are more than pastime; they’re a form of training, sharpening her ability to think several steps ahead. the patience, the foresight, the calculated aggression required in these games translate directly into her survival tactics. it’s a safe outlet where she can indulge in her love of strategy and power without bloodshed (for once).

lone wolves

Grimm respects those who survive alone. there’s a raw authenticity to self-reliance that resonates with her own fractured identity. she ires the strength it takes to trust only oneself in a hostile world. the solitary survivor’s mindset aligns with her belief that attachments are liabilities and that dependance is a weakness. in her mind, lone wolves are warriors who have faced the abyss and come back stronger, and she sees a kinship there—even if she rarely its it aloud.

sharp shadows

she is drawn to sharp angles and shadows—the silhouettes and edges that can conceal or cut. whether it’s the jagged ruins of a cityscape or the sharp outline of a blade catching the light, these shapes speak to her. they symbolize danger, beauty in destruction, and the unforgiving world she inhabits. sharp shadows remind her that survival is about edge and precision, not softness or roundness.

❛ 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄𝐒 ❜

──

weakness﹐loud noises﹐false hope﹐crowds﹐bureaucracy﹐sentimentality﹐betrayal﹐crowded places

weakness

weakness is Grimm’s greatest revulsion—not just physical frailty, but emotional vulnerability and indecision. to her, weakness invites death, betrayal, and suffering. it’s a reminder of every failure she’s ever endured, every loss she’s suffered. she judges herself harshly of any sign of weakness, and she demands strength from those who cross her path. in a world where only the strong survive, weakness is a liability that cannot be afforded. it fuels a relentless drive to eliminate any softness in herself or others, often brutally.

loud noises

sudden loud noises trigger a primal reaction in Grimm—an explosive burst of adrenaline or a deepening of cold dread. explosions, gunfire, and even careless shouting pull her from her calculated mindset, exposing raw nerves and buried trauma. loud noises disrupt her focus, ruin the advantage of stealth, and invite danger. the chaos they bring is a sharp reminder of the violence and unpredictability of her world, making her recoil internally and steel herself against the panic.

false hope

Grimm hates false hope with a burning intensity. to her, hope if a double-edged sword—when real, it can inspire survival, but when false, it’s a cruel trap. she’s witnessed too many broken people clinging to illusions, only to be crushed by reality. false hope breeds desperation, recklessness, and betrayal. Grimm prefers harsh truths, even brutal ones, over comforting lies. she believes that only by facing the cold reality head-on can one truly survive and thrive.

crowds

large groups unsettle Grimm deeply. they represent chaos, unpredictability, and loss of control. in crowds, threats multiply, and maintaining vigilance becomes nearly impossible. she has learned to navigate alone or in small, tightly controlled groups where trust is absolute. crowds bring boise, confusion, and distraction—luxuries she cannot afford. for Grimm, crowds are danger incarnate, a storm of variables she refuses to wade into.

bureaucracy

endless rules, red tape, and pointless protocols are anathema to Grimm. she views bureaucracy as a luxury of the past—a slow, meaningless dance of power and control that wastes precious time and resources. in her brutal, survival-driven world, decisions must be swift and consequences immediate. bureaucracy stifles initiative, drains energy, and frustrates her innate desire for control. it represents everything wrong with organized society and everything that has failed in the apocalypse.

sentimentality

sentimentality is a weakness Grimm has no tolerance for. she views emotional displays, nostalgia, and soft attachments as dangerous distractions. sentimentality clouds judgment, weakens resolve, and opens wounds that the world will mercilessly exploit. her survival depends on cold calculation and emotional distance. she has trained herself to suppress and reject sentimentality, seeing it as a luxury for those who have not yet been truly broken by loss and violence.

betrayal

betrayal cuts deeper than any physical wound for Grimm. trust is a rare and precious commodity, and when it is broken, the consequences are severe. having been betrayed countless times, she carries deep scars—both visible and hidden. betrayal fuels her coldness, her ruthlessness, and her desire for revenge. it hardens her heart and sharpens her instincts to detect false loyalties. for Grimm, betrayal is the ultimate sin, deserving nothing less than merciless retribution.

crowded places

the close proximity of strangers in confined spaces creates a claustrophobic tension Grimm despises. crowded places mean unpredictable threats, limited escape routes, and sensory overload. she associates such environments with vulnerability and danger, preferring open spaces or shadows solitude where she can see, control, and strike.

❛ 𝐇𝐎𝐁𝐁𝐈𝐄𝐒 ❜

──

tracking and hunting﹐tinkering with weapons and traps﹐dark sketching and journaling﹐knife throwing﹐exploring ruins﹐physical conditioning and combat training

tracking and hunting

Grimm spends hours honing her skills in tracking prey—both living and undead. it’s more than survival; it’s a ritual, a dance of shadows and silence where she feels most alive. the quiet patience required to follow a trail sharpens her mind and fuels her dark satisfaction when she finally closes in on her target. hunting is where her calculating and intense traits meet, turning cold strategy into deadly execution.

tinkering with weapons and traps

her resourcefulness extends to crafting and modifying weapons or traps from scavenged materials. Grimm finds dark satisfaction in creating tools of destructions that others underestimate. this hobby keeps her sharp, engaged, and always one step ahead of enemies. it’s a dangerous creativity that feeds both her calculating mind and her psychotic obsession with control.

dark sketching and journaling

in stolen moments of solitude, Grimm sketches disturbing, chaotic images and writes fragmented thoughts in a battered journal. these drawings and writings are raw expressions of her fractured mind—a way to externalize the darkness she carries. it’s a quiet outlet for her unstable psyche, a haunting mirror of her internal torment and twisted worldview.

knife throwing

precision and control define Grimm’s obsession with knife throwing. it’s not just a practice—it’s a meditative release of her intense focus and deadly skill honed through constant repetition. the sharp thud of a blade hitting its mark is both satisfying and empowering, reinforcing her images as a ruthless predator in a broken world.

exploring ruins

driven by a mix of curiosity and survival instinct, Grimm often ventures into abandoned, crumbling structures. the ruins speak to her—each shadow and broken corner a potential threat or opportunity. exploring these ghostly places feeds her stoic nature and sharpens her senses, while also offering rare moments of solitude amid chaos.

physical conditioning and combat training

Grimm dedicates time to maintaining her physical edge through rigorous workouts and combat drills. this hobby isn’t just about survival; it’s about control over her body and mind, pushing past pain and exhaustion. it fuels her relentless and intense personality, ensuring she’s always ready for the brutal demands of her world.

❛ 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐔𝐀𝐆𝐄 ❜

──

acts of service﹐quality time﹐gift giving

acts of service

Grimm doesn’t value words—she’s flimsy, manipulative, and hollow. what speaks to her are the unspoken gestures that cost something: time, energy, risk. stitching her up without complaint. holding the line when she’s outnumbered. not flinching when she screams. acts of service are her metric of worth. if you protect her when she doesn’t ask, if you act without needing credit, you’ve earned something from her—something close to trust, or maybe the burning edge of affection. she grew up in a world where survival depended on what people did, not what they said. promises were knives in disguise. but action—undeniable, deliberate—was currency. that formed the core of how she interprets loyalty, attachment, and love.

quality time

time is the rarest resource in Grimm’s world. giving it to someone, choosing to exist beside them when she could be hunting or killing or sleeping with one eye open—means more than she’d ever voice. but her version of “quality” is different. it’s in the silence between adrenaline spikes. sitting with her during a downpour, watching the rot settle on the horizon, saying nothing and needing nothing. that’s sacred. if she lets you linger in her presence without pushing you away, it’s not just tolerance—it’s intimacy.

gift giving

while Grimm scoffs at sentimentality, gifts—real, practical gifts—are a language she understands better than most. in her eyes, giving someone a rare bullet, a purloined blade, or even a half-decent cigarette is a declaration. she doesn’t care about prettiness or packaging. if she gifts you something, it’s not for show—it’s because she deemed you worthy of something useful.

compatibility & preference

Grimm connects best with partners who are grounded in utility, action, and intention. acts of service, gift giving (practical, not symbolic), and quality time in silence or shared danger are the languages that get through to her. she cannot stand overly emotional or clingy partners. she will ghost anyone who demands constant reassurance or invades her emotional space too fast. however, she deeply respects those who give without asking, who understand her silences, and who offer tools or time instead of declarations. she doesn’t want someone who “gets” her. she wants someone who endures with her. because love, to Grimm, isn’t about falling—it’s about surviving the fall and crawling back bloody, together.

Ꮠ 𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐀𝐆𝐄 Ꮠ

──

𝐢﹔𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄    𝐢𝐢﹔𝐏𝐈𝐂𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄    𝐢𝐢𝐢﹔𝐏𝐇𝐘𝐒𝐈𝐐𝐔𝐄

𝐢𝐯﹔𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐋𝐎𝐑    𝐯﹔𝐀𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀

⠀

”love makes you hesitate. hesitation gets you killed.”

❛ 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄 ❜

──

vertical brow scar, right side — a reminder of betrayal

the most prominent mark on Grimm’s face is a long, clean scar that cuts vertically through her right eyebrow and halts just shy of her eye socket. she got it during a close-quarters betrayal—someone she once trusted jammed a broken glass shard into her face when things went south during a raided supply drop. the pain was blinding. the blood rain into her eye, and for a moment she thought she’d lost her sight. but she didn’t scream. she didn’t cry. she killed them without hesitation. the scar healed uneven, jagged like a lightning bolt, and she never bothered to hide it. to her, it’s not a flaw. it’s a warning. it tells everyone what happens when you get too close.

a tattoo of a black snake coiled around a dagger — symbol of rebirth through death.

twisting down her left forearm is a bold, black tattoo: a serpent winding around a dagger, its mouth open, fangs bared, blade slick with inked venom. she didn’t get it in a parlor. a drifter with a kit did it with a needle in the back of an abandoned railcar, the hum of generators and the stink of antiseptic marking the moment. Grimm chose it for a reason. the dagger is precision and death—clean, efficient, unflinching. the snake is survival, cunning, regeneration. together they represent the two halves of her; the weapon and the instinct. she stares at it sometimes in silence, running her thumb down the spine of the inked blade. it’s not decoration, it’s declaration.

her eyes, a pale steel-grey — always calculating, always watching

Grimm’s eyes are a dead silver-grey, like overcast skies on the verge of storming. they don’t just look at you. they assess you. they strip you down to your vulnerabilities, read your tells, and file you away as a threat, an asset, or dead weight. her gaze is unrelenting. it makes people uncomfortable—because it’s not just detached. it’s clinical. cold. her eyes rarely show emotion unless it’s rage or intent. in rare moments of vulnerability, they flicker—not with fear, but with a volatile quiet that feels more dangerous than any outburst.

her hands, sporting scarred knuckles and calloused fingers — tools of violence and survival.

Grimm’s hands are a road map of her past. her knuckles are busted and hardened, having kissed too many jaws, skulls, and walls to remain smooth. small cuts, old burn scars, even a partially broken little finger that never set quite right—they speak of someone who’s fought with fists when guns failed, and didn’t stop swinging. her fingertips are stained, not with dirt but with rust, gun oil, and sometimes blood. she never wears gloves unless it’s freezing—she likes feeling everything. the bite of a blade’s grip. the warmth of a neck under pressure. her hands don’t hesitate, and they don’t forget.

her expression, a default deadpan — unreadable, unnerving.

Grimm doesn’t smile. not really. at most, she tilts the corner of her mouth—just enough to make you wonder if it’s amusement or a threat. her resting expression is void: not cold in a melodramatic way, but absent, like she’s elsewhere. people talk and she listens, but her face stays the same—blank, poised, unreadable. the absence of reaction is what unnerves others the most. you never know if she’s calm or planning your demise. and that’s exactly how she wants it.

her voice, low, husky, and deliberate — every word means something

there’s gravel in Grimm’s voice—like she’s smoked too many cigarettes or screamed too many times in silence. it’s not loud. she never raises it. instead, she speaks with a deliberate slowness, as though weighing every word before letting it loose. her voice doesn’t plead or apologize. it commands, even in whispers. there’s no excess—just the essential. but when she’s angry? it drops a note lower. and when she’s lying? it doesn’t change at all.

❛ 𝐏𝐈𝐂𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄 ❜

──

Grimm wears the face of someone who’s seen too much and stopped pretending she hasn’t. her features are angular and striking, yet raw with exhaustion. her face is slim and sharp-boned, the kind that looks gaunt even when she’s healthy. high cheekbones, hollowed cheeks, and a slightly hooked nose all contribute to a permanent air of tension, like she’s constantly on edge, or maybe two steps ahead.

her eyes are the most cutting part of her — light grey, almost silver in the right lighting. cold, unreadable, and ever-watchful, like a storm held behind glass. her gaze is unrelenting, always sizing people up, like she’s looking through them rather than at a them. there’s a quiet, burning calculation behind her stare — as if everything she sees is a part of a bigger plan no one else understands.

her lips are naturally downturned, which only emphasizes the grimness to her demeanor. when she does smile, it’s light-tipped, often cruel or sarcastic — never warm. her expressions flicker more than they move, subtle and hard to read unless you know her well — and no one really does.

Grimm’s hair is shoulder-length, dark brown verging on black, with a naturally tousled, unkempt look — as if it’s been run through her fingers more than a comb. she rarely bothers styling it. it falls over her face in jagged strands, sometimes greasy, sometimes clean, but always a bit disheveled, a bit wild. it fits her. she looks like someone who doesn’t have time to care about vanity — and doesn’t want to.

her voice matches her dace — low, husky, worn, and distinctly unhurried. she doesn’t raise it often, and when she does, it’s like thunder cutting through dead air. there’s gravel to it, a subtle rasp that makes even her quietest words feels dangerous. it’s the kind of voice that lingers after the conversation ends — not because of what she said, but because of what she didn’t.

❛ 𝐏𝐇𝐘𝐒𝐈𝐐𝐔𝐄 ❜

──

Grimm stands around 5’9”, with a lean but powerful build—like a panther made for silent kills. muscle ripples under her skin with function, not form; ever inch of her body is a weapon. her gait is deliberate, almost predatory. she moves like someone who was hunted once and swore never to be prey again. there’s no softness in her—just bone, sinew, and tension. her body bears the story of her life in bruises that fade too slow and scars that never will. she doesn’t mind them. they’re reminders of what’s been endured—and what she’s capable of.

❛ 𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐋𝐎𝐑 ❜

──

Grimm’s style is pure function layered with intimidation. she wears worn tactical pants, heavy boots with hidden blades in the soles, and a dark, weather-beaten jacket that smells like smoke and dried blood. her shirts are tight and plain, layered for mobility and warmth, often stained and ripped but never replaced. she keeps a scar or bandana on hand—something to cover her face when needed. there’s often a holster or two strapped to her thigh or chest. her aesthetic is the battlefield—merciless, minimal, and made for survival. jewelry or accessories? never. but a blood-smeared cloth wrapped around her wrist from a fallen comrade? that she wears like armor.

❛ 𝐀𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀 ❜

──

smoke﹐metal﹐leather﹐earth ﹐blood

smoke

smoke clings to Grimm like a memory she never intends to let go of. it seeps from her clothes, her hair, the folds of her coat. not the kind that comes from warmth or comfort—but the acrid, lingering scent of something once whole, now burned to the bone. campfires, demolished shelters, the aftermath of violence—it follows her like a shadow, the ghost of something destroyed. it is her essence: smoldering, dangerous, always on the edge of ignition.

blood

fresh and dried. metallic, primal. it’s soaked into her gloves, splattered on her skin, crusted beneath her fingernails. she doesn’t always bother to clean it off. blood, to Grimm, is ritual. it’s currency. it’s truth. it speaks louder than words ever could. the scent of it is unavoidable when you’ve carved your life through flesh. it tells others what she is without her needing to say a word—predator, not prey.

metal

not polished or pristine, but rusted, raw, and lived-in. the scent of old blades, worn tools, snapped wire. it marks her presence as someone who crafts destruction with her hands—someone who sharpens what’s dull and turns scraps into weapons. it coats her fingertips, clings to buckles and zippers of her gear, and merges seamlessly with the tang of blood. a reminder that everything around her is edged.

leather

faded and cracked, the aged leather of her jacket and boots carries a scent of survival. it’s not fashion—it’s armor. she’s worn the same layers through rain, fire, and violence. they smell of sweat, skin, and time. of everything she’s walked through. there’s a feral sense of history in that scent, like the skin of a beast that’s been through hell and came back more brutal than before.

earth

she carries the scent of damp forest floors, grave-dirt, moss, and dust. she’s lived in the wild—buried in ruins, crawling through undergrowth, knees to the mud. this smell is grounding and grimy, tied to the way she moves like something half-feral. the scent of earth on her isn’t poetic—it’s survival under your nails, grit between your teeth, the inevitability of decay.

wild herbs

sharp and bitter. sage, thyme, dried lavender—things she scavenges and carries not for beauty, but for purpose. she masks rot with ritual. packs them in pockets or binds them to her wrists with string. they’re the only form of “clean” she allows, but even this is rough and raw. the herbs are protection, distraction, sometimes delusion. but they make her scent unmistakable—nature twisted to her will.

overall

Grimm’s aroma is not just scent—it’s a statement. a history. a warning. the smell of a storm that has already ed through—and may again.

Ꮠ 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐏 Ꮠ

──

𝐢﹔𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐀𝐋    𝐢𝐢﹔𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐀𝐋    𝐢𝐢𝐢﹔𝐒𝐈𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆

𝐢𝐯﹔𝐏𝐄𝐓    𝐯﹔𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐎𝐍

⠀

”trust is a currency i ran out of years ago.”

❛ 𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐀𝐋 ❜

──

Liora Calder﹐35 years﹐deceased (would be 56)

Liora Calder was a sharp, enigmatic woman with a quiet strength that often read as cold to strangers—but Grimm saw her mother for what she truly was: calculating, reserved, and exacting. she rarely raised her voice, but when she did, it struck like a knife through silence. Liora was never maternal in the traditional sense. she didn’t cradle or coo; she taught with her eyes and her silences. she valued independence, composure, and silence more than affection, and she ed those values down to Grimm without apology.

a former botanist turned survivalist once the world began to decay, Liora was intensely observant and self-contained. she had an intimate knowledge of wild herbs, natural poisons, and healing remedies—things she ed on to Grimm in pieces, through hands-on experience and strict correction. Grimm learned to pay attention to patterns, to respect the balance of life and death, and above all, to survive without sentiment. Liora once told her, “the world doesn’t need more kindness. it needs more creatures that refuse to die.”

when Liora died, Grimm was only 8. the event was bloody and abrupt—a raider’s knife during a trade gone wrong. Liora didn’t scream or beg; she stared into her killer’s eyes like she’d already seen it coming. Grimm never forgot that look. it carved itself into her bones.

❛ 𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐀𝐋 ❜

──

Silas Calder﹐41﹐missing, presumed dead

Silas Calder was a scavenger by trade and a former mechanic before society collapsed. where Liora was cold and composed, Silas was animated and volatile—a man of contradictions. he could be charming when it suited him, almost humorous in the way he talked to himself while fixing broken radios or taking apart weapons, but his temper lived close to the surface. he was impulsive, fiercely protective, and deeply paranoid.

Grimm learned two key things from him: how to manipulate appearances to get what you need, and how quickly love could turn into something dangerous. he told her stories about wolves in sheep’s clothing, taught her how to lie without blinking, and how to spot a setup from a mile away. Silas always said, “dont trust a world that chews its own. you chew first.”

their bond was chaotic—erratic swells of tension and brief, complicated moments of tenderness. she ired his survival instincts but feared his volatility. she loved him, in a way, but she never saw him as dependable. when he vanished on a supply run when she was 12, she didn’t cry. she waited for a week, then assumed the world had taken him the way it took her mother: ruthlessly and without warning.

whether Silas died by ambush, starvation, or simply chose to disappear, Grimm never searched. to her, he became another example of why nothing—not even blood—should be trusted.

❛ 𝐒𝐈𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 ❜

──

none

Grimm is an only child. she doesn’t speak about loneliness. she grew up with it. it’s as much a part of her as the blood under her nails.

❛ 𝐏𝐄𝐓 ❜

──

Hex﹐unknown

Hex was a sleek, coal-black cat with piercing green eyes who clung to her side through every checkpoint, every bunker, every half-collapsed ruin. Grimm loved that cat with a ferocity she never showed another living soul. he was quiet, clever, and never asked for more than what she could give. when Hex disappeared—slipped off into the wilderness one night, never to return—Grimm let a tear slip, deterring her facade. she just stopped naming things.

❛ 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐎𝐍 ❜

──

none

Grimm doesn’t do friends. companionship is weakness disguised as comfort. she’s had allies, temporary partners, even one lover—but friends? no. that word is too soft for the world she lives in. trust is a liability, and she’d rather sleep with one eye open than ever feel vulnerable again.

Ꮠ 𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘 Ꮠ

──

𝐢﹔𝐄𝐗𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍   𝐢𝐢﹔𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐎𝐍𝐄    𝐢𝐢𝐢﹔𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐓𝐖𝐎

4﹔𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄

⠀

”i didn’t survive because i was lucky. i survived because i was willing to lose everything, including myself.”

❛ 𝐭𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐛𝐲 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞. ❜

──

Grimm’s beginning was not one marked or sentiment but by cold calculation and survival instinct—a legacy ed down from two very different but equally formidable parents.

Liora Calder was a botanist by ion and profession, drawn to the hidden wisdom of plants and the delicate balance of ecosystems. she spent years immersed in the study of wild herbs, healing plants, and natural toxins, fascinated by how nature could both nurture and destroy. her work was meticulous, grounded in observation and precision, reflecting her own personality—reserved, exacting, and unyieldingly calm. the forest and its secrets were her sanctuary, a place where silence spoke louder than words.

Silas Calder’s world was different: a mechanic by trade, a scavenger by necessity. before society’s collapse, he fixed engines and radios, breathed life into broken machines, and had a knack for understanding complex mechanisms. when the world fell apart, he adapted quickly, using his skills to survive—stripping down wreckage, repairing weapons, and navigating the ruins of civilization with a wary eye. Silas was resourceful, quick-witted, and volatile—his charm a thin veneer over a restless, suspicious mind.

their paths crossed in the early days of chaos, drawn together by necessity more than choice. a chance encounter during a trade in the ruins of a forgotten town sparked a connection—Liora’s calm precision tempered by Silas’s unpredictable fire. they forged a fragile partnership, their strengths balancing each other: she, the patient planner with knowledge of nature’s subtle threats and cures; he, the improviser who could make tools from scraps and read danger before it arrived.

from their union came Grimm. raised amidst ruins and wild forests, she inherited her mother’s discipline and her father’s cunning. Liora taught her to read the language of plants—the way a leaf’s color could signal poison, or how a root could heal wounds. Grimm learned patience and observation, the value of silence and the power of endurance. “nature does not forgive mistakes,” Liora often said, “and neither should you.”

Silas, meanwhile, taught Grimm to navigate the shattered world with eyes wide open. he drilled into her the art of deception, the necessity of masks and lies to survive. his lessons were harsh and abrupt, but they honed her instincts. “trust is a currency you can’t afford to waste,” he warned, “especially when everyone’s looking for a way to take yours.”

their family was far from perfect—Liora’s resolve often clashed with Silas’s fiery temper. yet, these contradictions shaped Grimm into a child who understood that survival demanded both steel and subtlety. when Grimm was eight, tragedy struck: a brutal raid during a supply exchange left Liora dead, her final moments marked by quiet defiance rather than fear. Grimm never forgot her mother’s unwavering gaze, even as life slipped away.

Silas disappeared four years later on a risky scavenging run, leaving Grimm alone and unmoored. she waited, then accepted the silence that followed. whether fate claimed him or he chose to vanish, it no longer mattered. his absence became another lesson in the harsh truth she carried forward—attachment could be a liability, and trust was earned in blood, not words.

born from the fusion of two very different worlds—nature’s calm and machine’s chaos—Grimm’s early life was a crucible of survival. her parents’ legacies—Liora’s precision and knowledge, Silas’s cunning and unpredictability—shaped a child who would grow into a fierce, calculating force. their love, fraught and fractured, left her with one immutable truth: in a world gone mad, only the cold, the clever, and the ruthless endure.

❛ 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐩 𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠. ❜

──

i was seventeen when the world showed me how thin the line between friend and foe really is — when trust shattered on glass and blood, carving itself into my flesh and soul.

we were crawling through the gutted ruins of an old factory, the kind of place long forgotten and overrun with rust and shadows. the air smelled stale, like forgotten memories soaked in dust. broken glass crunched beneath my boots as i followed Kael, the one person i thought i could count on. his movements were fluid, practiced—like he was born to slip between danger and silence. i was close behind, senses sharp, every muscle coiled and ready.

the crates lay half-buried under a toppled steel beam. the prize: canned goods, ammo, maybe something valuable enough to trade later. just a simple job. quick in and out.

that’s when it happened.

before i could even blink, a flash of something sharp gleamed in his hand—a shard of broken glass. cold as death. it sliced through the air and found its mark.

pain exploded across the right side of my face, hot and stinging, a clean cut through my eyebrow, jagged yet precise. the blade bit deep enough to draw blood, but mercifully spared my eye. my fingers shot up instinctively, trembling as they pressed against the wound, wiping away the dark, warm liquid that soaked my skin. i wanted to scream. the shock, the betrayal—acid burning in my throat—but no sound came out. my voice was lost, swallowed by disbelief.

Kael’s eyes, once familiar and full of shared plans and quiet jokes, were now empty, cold as the steel shard still in his hand. “sorry, Grimm,” he muttered, voice low and without remorse. “you never understood what was at stake.”

at that moment, the world shifted and panic clawed at my chest. for a brief, terrifying moment, darkness swirled at the edges of my vision. i thought my eye was lost. but no—my silver-grey haze cleared. my sight stayed sharp, piercing the gloom. i didn’t have the luxury of panic. survival was a cold, relentless master. that was when Kael lunged, knife flashing toward my ribs. pain blossomed—sharp but hollow—as the blade nicked me. my body reacted before my mind could reach, grab ahold of my being and guide me. twisting away, my heart pounded against my chest like a war drum, adrenaline surging my veins.

it drowned out my pain and fear, my breathing becoming fast but measured. calm had been become a weapon. my eyes landed on a broken piece of glass, jagged and cruel like the one that had found peace in slashing my brow and ribs. without another thought, it slipped into my hand—cold and unforgiving in my fist—and turned to face the traitor.

his eyes widened with shock as the shard plunged into his throat, sinking deep enough to silence him in a rush of warm, coppery blood that slicked my fingers. his last breath was a ragged gasp, disbelief frozen in his wide, glassy eyes.

standing over him, my muscles tensed, chest heaving from the amount of energy i’d exerted. the silence between us was deafening. the metallic scent of blood filled my nostrils, sharp and intoxicating. i felt it—the pulse of life slipping away beneath my hands, the undeniable weight of what i’d done.

and then the warmth came.

it started deep in my chest, a fire kindling where the cold numbness had been. satisfaction, fierce and pure, bloomed through me like wildfire. i felt alive in a way i’d never felt before—the kill was the only thing that felt remotely right. the only thing that had made sense in the world that had betrayed me so many times before.

was this what mom and dad prepared me for? all those years of ruthless silence and cold calculation? my mother’s quiet strength and knowledge, teaching me the harsh realities of the world, between life and death. my father’s sharp mind and biting humor, showing me how to deceive and survive? all the combat training? this—the raw power of ending a life with my own hands—this was something else entirely.

tracing my fingers along the fresh wound in my eyebrow, the scar already forming a stark line through my skin, giving me a spark. it was more than a mark of pain—it was a badge of survival. a reminder that trust was a blade, and i had been cut deep.

i didn’t cry. i didn’t beg for mercy or fall apart. instead, i let the heat flood my veins and harden my resolve. the world was merciless, and i was to follow in its pursuit.

from that day forward, i knew: vulnerability was a luxury i couldn’t afford anymore. trust, a weapon turned against me. but at least i’d become sharper, colder, stronger.

and i was ready.

❛ 𝐢 𝐚𝐦 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐫. ❜

──

y’know, i figured i had learned the true meaning of pain when Kael’s blade met my skin, when betrayal left its mark across my face. but nothing—nothing—could have prepared me for losing her.

Maya Grayson. i’d met her in the gray wastelands of those lawless years—our lives woven into the tattered folds of a raider group. ruthless and fractured, we were scavengers, thieves, survivors in a world that no longer had room for kindness. Maya was fire, wild hair that caught the sun like a torch, eyes like cracked glass—beautiful but broken. she was the only thing that felt real in that pit of violence and deceit. we fought side by side, laughed in stolen moments, and for the first time, i felt something close to belonging.

amid the chaos, Maya was my anchor. she wasn’t like the others. there was a fierce light in her that never dulled, even as the world crumbled around us. even the band of lost souls we’d come to abide with. i trusted her when trust had long become a dangerous game i’d play endlessly. we moved as one through the wreckage of a dead city, watching each other’s backs. she was more than just a companion—she was a reason to keep breathing. to keep fighting. even when everything and everyone else around me was crumbling. i pushed and broke through each time. each hardship.

but belonging was a lie.

the day it happened, the sun was pale, bleeding weak light through the sickly sky. the camp was quiet, the usual tension replaced with a strange stillness i couldn’t quite shake. rumors had been swirling—a trap set for our next raid, whispers of betrayal. but i refused to believe it. not her. i’d left in the evening, when the sun had set, leaving for a supply run, carrying the imagery of her smile in my mind. a fragile thing i guarded jealously.

coming back home, the silence hit me like a blow. the usual noise of camp—shouts, clanking metal, ragged breathing—was gone. a heavy stillness settled over everything, so deep it pressed against my skin. the hairs on the back of my neck rose as i found her in the wreckage of an abandoned house, shadows swallowing the broken walls.

her body was crumpled against the cold earth, skin pale and slick with blood. her left arm was mangled, torn apart like a twisted piece of metal, and deep gashes carved through her ribs. being in a group of raiders, you’d see and do a lot of shit. experience more than you’d expect to in a lifetime. the dark shit you’d get yourself into, witness others do to those we crossed paths with and raided. even killed. but nothing could have amounted to this level of torture, suffering that riddled her corpse. one with ragged breaths rattling her throat as she barely clung onto life. “Maya,” i’d whisper.

her eyes flickered open as i knelt beside her, their usual fire reduced to flickers of pain and shock. “Grimm…” my name was the last thing that came from her pretty mouth. a voice barely more than a mere whisper, a ghost. it took everything in me not to freak the absolute fuck out. to act on impulse, follow my heart rather than my head. but, for her, i would keep everything under control and at bay.

so, i swallowed the rising scream of agony and despair in my chest, resorting to holding her figure in my arms. “i’m here,” i said, voice steady though my hands shook violently, fearful. there was no way this was happening, it had to be a fever dream. but the more i tried to lead with delusion, the more time i’d waste. “i’m not leaving you.”

and as i thought she wouldn’t have anything left in her to muster words, to say something other than my name for the final syllable she’d speak, came her voice. coughing, a wet, desperate sound that tore at my soul as she choked on her blood. “they… they led me there. set me up… you have to—“

her words broke off into a pained gasp, the white light finally gaining her attention as her body stilled, chest ceasing to rise again. my hand pressed against the worst of the bleeding, but it was already too late. hopeless. how could she be gone? just like that? if only i’d stayed by her side, didn’t go on that supply run. the world had already written its faith for us, though, as it kept spinning. it didn’t just end there.

finally, i’d gather myself after some time mourning her lifeless corpse. instead of letting her turn into one of those things, i’d taken matters into my own hand and pulled the trigger against her temple. whispering a simple, yet meaningful “rest now.” i sat there long after her last breath, after the bullet i put in her dome, giving her mercy. the weight of what i’d done settled over me like a shroud, suffocating as i felt fire in my chest burn low, smoldering into something colder— harder.

part two