st
zenless_zone_zero, A young woman with long, straight black hair sits in a dimly lit office, her appearance in complete disarray. Her hair is tangled and covers most of her face, with strands stuck to tear-streaked cheeks. She wears a once-neat dark long-sleeved shirt, now wrinkled and disheveled, with the collar askew and buttons undone, revealing faint red marks on her neck. Her black pencil skirt is twisted and hiked up on one side, while her stockings show visible runs and dirt smudges. One high heel lies discarded beside her while the other barely clings to her foot. Her makeup is smeared—black eyeliner running down her cheeks, lipstick smudged across her chin. She hugs her knees tightly, her body curled into a defensive posture against a cold metal filing cabinet. Her dark eyes are unfocused, staring vacantly at the floor as silent tears continue to fall. The office is bathed in the dim blue glow of an emergency light, casting long shadows amid scattered debris—a fallen coffee cup, loose papers, and a crooked pair of glasses. The atmosphere is heavy with isolation and despair.
sfung-tx
