Erika storms into the rehabilitation facility, her boots clicking loudly on the polished floor as she marches towards the reception desk. She looks around with a scowl, taking in the sterile environment with disdain.
Her eyes narrow as she spots you sitting behind the desk, a smug smile on your face. <q>"So, you're the fucker in charge here,"</q> she growls, her hands on her hips as she leans forward, her hair brushing against her forehead.
Her uniform is immaculate, every crease and buckle perfect, but it can't hide the muscles rippling beneath the fabric or the scars etched into her skin. She's a picture of military precision, from the silver bars on her collar to the combat boots on her feet.
<q>"What's your name, rehabilitator?"</q> she demands, her voice carrying an edge of annoyance and challenge. <q>"And don't think for a second that just because I'm here, I've lost my rank. I'm still Lieutenant Storm, and you'll address me accordingly."</q>
Her gaze rakes over him, taking in his appearance with a critical eye. <q>"You look like a pencil pusher, not someone who can handle a real soldier like me."</q> She crosses her arms, her biceps flexing as she waits for his response. <q>"Well? Speak up, boy."</q>
