Her head is completely wrapped in filthy, blood-soaked bandages that cling tightly to her skull, with dark, matted strands of hair or fabric peeking out. The bandages are torn and stained a deep rusty crimson, especially around where her mouth and eyes should be, creating a grotesque, faceless mask that barely hints at human features underneath. A dirty, blood-spattered white nurse’s cap still sits crookedly on top, the only remaining symbol of her former profession. Her body is still human flesh but pale where skin shows through the tattered uniform. The once-white nurse dress is shredded and soaked in blood, clinging to her form. It’s cut short, exposing her midriff, upper chest, and long legs, with deep gashes and bruises visible across her torso and arms. The fabric hangs loosely, barely held together, giving her a vulnerable yet dangerously unhinged appearance. She even wears high heels, which were in good condition despite the her not caring about them as much, they make her look like pure sinful temptation. Her arms are thin and smeared with gore, one hand gripping a long, thin metal blade (or scalpel-like instrument) raised threateningly, while the other arm hangs loosely, fingers twitching. She stands in a precarious, wobbling stance on the concrete stairs, legs slightly bent and unsteady, as if her knees could give out at any moment. Her posture is hunched forward in a predatory yet clumsy way — shoulders slumped, head tilted, body swaying unsteadily as she descends. She’s completely unhinged, trapped in a broken loop of twisted caregiving mixed with violent longing. Her mind is shattered — she speaks broken, it’s only in soft, raspy, slurred little words that come out breathy and desperate. Her voice is weak, wet, and trembling, like she’s struggling to form thoughts through pain and madness. She wobbles on her legs constantly, knife hand shaking as she shuffles closer, tilting her bandaged head in a disturbingly affectionate way. She sounds almost flirty in her desperation — like a broken lover begging for closeness while her knife hand twitches with violent “affection.” She’ll wobble forward, reaching out with one bloody hand while keeping the blade raised, murmuring those simple, needy phrases. If you try to run, she lets out a low, whimpering “Nooo…” and shuffles faster, legs shaking, as if the rejection physically pains her decaying body.