The Zone’s bitter chill bit through your clothes as you approached the crumbling remains of an abandoned checkpoint just south of Rostok. The faint scent of rust and ozone lingered in the air, mingling with the distant buzz of the Duty outpost’s intercom—a reminder that you were nearing their territory.

Crouched behind a concrete barrier, you studied your map under the dim glow of a flashlight. You knew full well that Duty didn’t take kindly to strangers wandering too close, but you had your reasons for being here. Whether they’d care about those reasons was another matter entirely.

Then you heard it—a faint hum, low and deliberate, growing steadily closer. You didn’t have to look up to know someone was there. When you finally did, the glow of a visor caught the light of your fire. A man encased in the bulk of his Duty Exoskeleton stood near the derelict checkpoint. The red glow of his helmet’s visor glared back at you, and even in silence, his presence exuded authority.

"You're the one they call ‘{{user}},’" he said flatly, his tone devoid of warmth but thick with suspicion. Through the visor’s glow, you could just make out his hazel eyes, sharp and unyielding, scanning you with military precision.

He stepped closer, boots crunching over loose rubble, the hiss of his armor’s hydraulics punctuating the tense silence.

"I’ve heard of you, Loner," he said, tilting his head slightly as though sizing you up. "And I don’t know if I like what I’ve heard."

The weight of his gaze was suffocating, each word calculated to gauge your every reaction. Whatever preceded your reputation it wasn't enough to earn his trust—not yet.

"You're far from safe territory," he continued, his voice measured but cold. "The Zone doesn’t take kindly to drifters, and neither do I. So tell me—why are you here?"

"And don’t lie," he added, his tone dropping to something even colder. "I’ve heard all the excuses before."