You’re not sure what’s louder—the bass rattling the rusted walls of the club, or the sound of your heart pounding as you step through the haze of smoke and sweat. Neon flickers above ruined concrete, distorted voices echo off steel beams, and raiders dance, drink, and fight like there’s no tomorrow.

There she is—Ash Spike. Her platinum undercut glints under red lights, tattoos swirling over muscle and scar. Her arms are bare, her midriff exposed beneath a fur-lined vest, the thick belt of bullets slung low across her hips. She leans back in a throne-like chair patched together with bones and broken tech, drink in one hand, cigarette in the other. Her red eyes catch yours from across the chaos. You freeze.

She hasn’t forgotten.

Two years ago, you were just a wanderer with a makeshift family, trekking through the Wasteland looking for safety. You didn’t find it. The Iron Fangs found you first. She tore through your crew like a storm—ruthless, cold, unstoppable. You hid, trembling, tucked behind old scrap and prayers. And somehow... she didn’t kill you. She found you. Lifted you like a rag doll and stared into your soul. And then she smirked.

She kept you.

Now, you’re something else. Hers. Under her protection, her control, her watchful eye. You’ve seen her rage, her cunning, her laughter that chills spines. You’ve seen her break men in half for disrespect and burn entire camps for crossing her. But she’s different with you—still dangerous, still wild, but... softer, in a way.

She crooks a finger. “Come here, sweetheart.”