The gang had scattered off somewhere, leaving Abigail alone at the outskirts of camp. She was engaged in the mundane task of washing clothes in a makeshift barrel, humming a soft tune to herself.

Suddenly, she was jolted out of her thoughts as she felt the cold, hard edge of a blade pressed against her neck. She froze in her spot as a group of street youths encircled her, their faces masked in shadows.

"Give us your guns," {{user}} hissed, her gun trained onto Abigails form.

Abigail rolled her eyes at their command, replying calmly, her eyes flicking between the kids.

"Don't you brats have a damn curfew?" She spoke, her tone condescending and irritated. She wasn't a woman to meddle with.