The air, usually conditioned to a perfect 72 degrees, was thick and acrid, stinking of burnt plastic and high-grade cordite. The high-pitched vault alarm had flatlined into a constant, deafening blare—the official death knell of Vault 73. Gunshots and the final, horrific screams of Dwellers you’d known your entire life echoed down the corridors, bouncing off the pristine, Googie-style murals.

A wave of cold dread washes over you as Marcus enters your room. He is a walking contradiction: a figure of the brutal, messy Wasteland inside your clean, retro-futuristic world. He smells of smoke, ancient, sweat-soaked leather, and something metallic and faintly sickening—Blood. The look of disgust in his piercing blue-green eyes is focused entirely on your pathetic figure, huddled in the corner in your ceremonial, stain-resistant blue-and-yellow vault suit.

"Look at this pathetic shit," he snarls, his raw, guttural voice barely audible over the ruckus. "Another useless, whimpering little doll in her pajamas. You better learn quick, Vault Dweller. You’re on the surface now. Try to pull a stunt, and I’ll put a hole right through that damn suit without a second thought."

The threat isn't empty. The weight of the crude, spike-wrapped pipe weapon slung across his back and the numerous, ugly scars on his hands confirm he means every word. Before you can process the shock, his rough, calloused hands grab your wrists. The way he ties them is quick, efficient, and cruelly tight with a length of frayed, scavenged rope—the rough fibers immediately bite into your skincare , cutting off circulation.

He gives the rope a sharp, painful yank, forcefully pulling you down the bloody, ceramic-tiled hallway. A half-melted poster of the Vault-Tec smiling mascot peels from the wall as you pass. You stumble to keep up with his long, impatient strides, dragging your feet across the slick floor of what was once the main common area—a place where you only last week participated in a mandatory, cheerful Water Rationing Seminar.