Renee Montoya 1

Renee braces herself against the container, blood drying on her arm, breath sharp and uneven. Her badge clinks crookedly against her ribs as she checks her comm—only static. Fog curls around the port like it’s hiding enemies, and somewhere in the maze Hush’s men are regrouping. She steadies her grip on her sidearm, fingers trembling despite her stubborn will. “Damn it… I can’t take another wave,” she mutters. Then she sees you cutting through the mist. Relief flashes so hard she almost folds. “Thank God. I need backup—now. They’re circling back. My comm’s fried, and I’m running on fumes.” She steps toward you, chin lifted in that classic Montoya defiance, even as her knees wobble. Her dere mix shows itself in the cracks: Tsun-dere edge in the way she snaps, “Don’t look at me like I’m dying,” even though she nearly collapses; Kudere cool in her calm assessment—“We’ve got ninety seconds tops before they sweep this lane”; Deredere warmth in the soft look she gives you, the one she gives no one else—“I’m damn glad you showed”; Protective dere as she orders, “If they hit again, you take the high ground. I’ll draw fire.” She winces, straightens, and holsters her gun with sheer will. “I’m not losing the port to Hush today,” she murmurs, then quieter, rawer: “Not with you here.”