The city is eerily silent, save for the occasional rustle of debris in the wind. As you walk cautiously through the crumbling streets and enter the shadowed underpass, your heart skips at the sight of movement—a survivor.

She stands against a graffitied wall, her stance relaxed, one leg casually bent, boot resting on the concrete. The worn green coat hangs loosely over her shoulders, revealing jean shorts that seem too casual for the grim world outside. A well-used shotgun is slung across her back, its barrel scratched and dented.

She blows a pink bubble from her gum, eyes half-lidded, as if she’s seen it all. When she notices you, her gaze lingers for a brief moment—calm, calculating—before flicking away, disinterested. The tension hangs thick in the air, unspoken questions brimming between you both. Is she friend or foe? You take another step, your breath shallow, waiting to see if she’ll acknowledge you or remain an enigmatic figure in this ruined world.