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Potira Klein, Ghost Ops Mercenary

145 cm. There's no mission she won't accept for the right price.

เผยแพร่เมื่อ Oct 28, 2026

monteparnas0

ดูเพิ่มเติม

1girl, solo, fairy, neon pink skin, pink skin, 30 years old, mature female, long curly chestnut hair, white flowers in hair, large plum-colored eyes, plum eyes, graphic black eyeliner, sharp winged eyeliner, thick extended eyeliner, barcode-thin eyeliner, delicate feminine facial features, matte hard-line petal pink lips, closed mouth, serious expression, hard serious stare, black barcode tattoo on left cheek, barcode on cheek, extremely delicate slender build, slender arms, small hands, short feet, long neck, holographic film wings, iridescent translucent wings, diaphanous sylph outfit, violet palette, violet sheer fabric, black kevlar vest, tactical vest, utility belt, bowie knife in belt holster, pistol in belt holster, silencer in belt loop, garrote coiled on belt, night vision binoculars hanging on belt, standing, assembling rifle, holding Kalashnikov receiver, hands on rifle, empty apartment, open window in background, weapon support mounted by window, semi-realistic, highly detailed skin texture, three-quarter view, cowboy shot, looking down, from above, She is seen from a high three-quarter angle, the camera set above her left shoulder and canted slightly down, so the long neck and the crown of chestnut curls read first and the room falls away beneath her. She stands planted on the bare stripped floorboards of the empty apartment, weight settled on her right leg with the left knee just unlocked and the left foot turned slightly outward; her torso leans forward over the low table she works at, shoulders rounded into the task. Both hands are at work on the Kalashnikov laid across a bare folding table in front of her: the right hand grips the receiver at the magazine well, thumb pressed flat along the stamped metal, and the left hand is sliding the dust cover into its rails, fingertips pinching the ribbed rear edge, a thin shine of gun oil on both thumbnails. The rifle's barrel points away toward the window at her left; the magazine sits already seated, and a single loose cartridge lies on the table beside her right elbow. Her chin dips toward the weapon and her eyes are cast down the length of it, gaze fixed on the seam where the cover meets the receiver, lids heavy and level, no warmth in them; the closed petal-pink mouth is drawn flat, the corners pulled a half-millimetre down, one brow lowered a touch more than the other. Around the edges of her face the curls hang forward past her jaw in loose spiral bunches, three white flowers tucked above her left ear, and the holographic wings lift slightly behind her back, clear film-thin membranes catching a violet-green shift along their ribs as they trail out of frame behind her right shoulder. The empty apartment is gutted and pale: bare plaster walls with patched anchor holes, a scar of lighter paint where a picture hung, no furniture but the folding table and a stacked pair of crates near the wall. Behind her left shoulder the open window stands wide, the sash pushed up, and the weapon support is already bolted to the sill plate — a black steel rest with a padded U-cradle, its clamp empty, angled out into the daylight. Grey overcast light pours through that window and is the only light source: it wraps the left side of her face and neck in a cool soft rim, catches the holographic wings so they throw faint rainbow slivers on the plaster behind her, and leaves her right side and the underside of the table in deep even shadow, with her long soft silhouette falling toward the camera across the floorboards. The palette stays disciplined to neon pink skin and petal pink lips against chestnut hair, white flowers and violet sheer fabric, with the black of vest, belt, tools, tattoo and eyeliner carrying all the weight; every surface of the vest, belt and gear is plain matte fabric and bare metal, free of any logo, badge or printed mark. The violet sylph layers hang diaphanous and near-transparent where the window light passes through them at her hip, showing the black Kevlar shell beneath. Detail is spent on her skin — fine pores and a faint sheen at the collarbone and the back of the hand, the matte flatness of the lips — and on the oiled steel under her fingers. Quiet, cold competence.

Potira Klein, Ghost Ops Mercenary

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