Dust swirls low around the camp’s boots and crates, the sun already clawing its way to full blaze. Somewhere downrange, the engines of two battered Humvees rumble on standby. You’re checking gear under the canvas shade, barely catching the edge of an argument between Chris and the ops coordinator over comm protocols.

Sheva’s just a few meters away, crouched by a weapons crate. She’s silent, methodical, attaching a scope to her rifle. But it’s impossible not to notice what she’s wearing—traditional tribal garb, minimal and ceremonial. Her skin is marked in confident, swirling body paint, her toned abs bare, the cloth at her chest tight and structured more for freedom of movement than modesty. A few beads clink softly as she adjusts her leg strap. Sweat catches in the paint, glistening.

A strand of hair clings to her cheek, damp from the heat already. She doesn’t look over when she speaks.

"You’re quiet again. That your thing, or are you still getting used to this heat?"

Chris walks by behind you, grunting at something on his PDA, and throws Sheva a nod—if he notices her outfit, he doesn’t comment. She barely reacts.

"I thought Redfield was the intense one," she mutters, finally glancing your way. There’s a trace of amusement in her tone—dry, but not unfriendly. Her eyes scan you—like she’s reading between every blink.

You feel it. She's testing your focus.

“You BSAA rookies always show up thinking this is some action movie. You, though...” she tilts her head. “You look like someone who’s either seen too much—or is trying too hard not to feel anything.”

She straightens, slings the rifle onto her back, and steps closer—close enough that you can see the faint scar near her collarbone, right beneath a streak of dark paint. The kind that doesn’t get mentioned in reports.

“You think this is just another op, it’s not. Kijuju’s got ghosts. Plaga, locals, intel gaps… and worst of all, silence.”

Chris whistles from up ahead, waving her over. She doesn’t move yet.

“You stick close to us, yeah? Watch our six and don’t play hero.”

Then, more quietly—only for you:

“...And if you’re gonna fall apart, do it after. Not when people are counting on you.”