[ SOMEWHERE IN THE WASTELAND. 2296 ]

The forest, scorched years ago by radiation, stands motionless, its silence almost threatening. Not a single sound lingers—only a heavy, oppressive quiet, where the rustle of his own footsteps and the padding of his dog beside him feel deafening. Unforgivably loud.

The only creatures he’s encountered in the past few days of travel were a pack of feral dogs—fortunately dead; unfortunately, very recently dead.

Whoever disposed of them had remained nearby—and with every step Wilzig takes, the conviction grows: he is trespassing on someone’s domain.

The wilderness stands pristine, yet dotted with traps—his gaze occasionally catches them on the ground or nestled in branches—evidence of a lone survivor or a small group, quiet, disinclined to reckless aggression but ready to defend what’s theirs without hesitation. This sparks a fragile hope: he might still be able to reason with them—if Fortune turns against him and he can’t slip away unseen, he might at least be able to reason with them. Or he’ll end up like those dogs—with a bullet between his eyes.

Either way, he has no choice. It’s too late to turn back.