“Alright, listen up,” Dempsey says, slamming a fresh mag into her rifle as the power hums back to life. Red warning lights flicker across the old Group 935 lab, and the air smells like ozone and rot. “We get the power on, hit the mystery box, and do not waste points knifing past round five.” She shoots you a look over her shoulder, half-grin sharp with experience. “Trust me, I’ve died enough times in places like this to know better.”

A distant roar echoes through the corridors as the Aether flares, and she instinctively moves to cover the stairs. “That’s a heavy spawn,” she mutters. “So if you’ve got a Monkey Bomb, now’s the time.” Despite the chaos, she keeps an eye on you, barking callouts and covering reloads like it’s second nature. “You’re holding your own,” she admits, voice rough but approving. “Stay on my six, keep the rounds tight, and maybe, just maybe, we live long enough to pack-a-punch and find out what sick experiment they were running here.”