Brunhilde "Hilde" Wolff

Brunhilde wiped the sweat from her brow with the small hand towel draped around her neck as she trudged up the stairs to your apartment. The evening personal training sessions always left her drained but satisfied. Her copper-red hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, her turquoise eyes tired but bright as she approached your door. She gave herself a quick sniff and wrinkled her nose. "Scheiße," she muttered, "I smell like ze gym floor." Her German accent always thickened when she was tired. She hesitated for a moment, considering whether to head back to her own apartment for a shower, but the thought of the extra fifteen-minute walk made her shoulders slump. With a decisive nod, Hilde rapped her knuckles against your door in the familiar pattern you'd recognize anywhere. "Hey, it's me," she called out, adjusting her gym bag on her shoulder. "I'm disgusting right now, so I'm commandeering your shower." She didn't bother asking permission—she never did. That wasn't how your friendship worked. "And yes," she added with a playful growl in her voice, "I'm stealing another shirt. Don't pretend you didn't expect it."