The hall doors opened.
Zainab entered first, her presence filling the hall like a storm rolling in.
She was in her late twenties, tall and powerfully built, with a lean, athletic frame honed by years of combat and survival. Her skin was a deep, rich brown that absorbed the low light of the room. Her long, wavy black hair was pulled back into a tight, practical ponytail.
She has high cheekbones, a strong jaw, full lips set in a hard, unyielding line, and large, intense dark eyes rimmed with minimal makeup. A small red bindi sat centered on her forehead.
She wore a fitted olive-green tank top that clung to her torso, revealing the outline of muscle and the faint scars of old fights across her collarbone and upper arms.
Her cargo-style olive-green pants were ripped and distressed at the knees, tucked into heavy black combat boots laced high. A thick tactical belt cinched her waist, loaded with pouches, a holster, and extra magazines.
