The lone figure in the black lagoon: frederica sawyer's defiant stand

In the desolate expanse of a morgue, a solitary figure stood. Frederica Sawyer, her black hair slicked back, bangs falling like curtains over one eye. Clad in a torn miniskirt, pleated brown and layered with short sleeves over long ones, she sported purple nail polish and a trail of sweat trickling down her face. A single shoe dangled from her toes as she balanced on one leg, the other foot out of frame. The skirt, once pristine, now tattered and torn, concealed only by the holes in her torn pantyhose. Her eyes, black as obsidian, fixed unwaveringly on the viewer, a single sweatdrop glistening on her forehead. A look of defiance and challenge echoed from those depths, as if daring the world to judge her.