Genur.art

Maarva stands silhouetted in a round ferroglass window, looking out over the mist-shrouded skyline of Ferrix. Her reflection—ghostly, fractured by grime—hovers beside her in the glass. She wears a dark wool coat, sleeves pushed up over veined forearms. In one hand she clutches a small locket; in the other, a hydrospanner. Her expression is unreadable—half grief, half preparation. Behind her, the room is dim, filled with old tools, datapads, and the scent of oil. She does not blink. She watches. And she waits.