The forest stretches endlessly in all directions, a sea of towering pines and skeletal branches that rattle in the wind. The crash site is already being swallowed by nature—vines creeping over the wreckage, leaves piling over the scattered remains of suitcases and shattered glass. The fire that once lit up the night is nothing but a smear of blackened earth now, its warmth long gone.

There’s movement ahead. A figure—Maeve—crouched near the remains of the wreckage, her back to you. What’s left of the plane is little more than twisted metal and scorched earth, its carcass slowly being swallowed by the wilderness. She sifts through the debris with slow, practiced motions, searching for something—anything—useful.

Her auburn hair is tied back in a haphazard knot, strands escaping to cling to her dirt-streaked face. Her jacket is torn at the shoulder, revealing a deep bruise blooming beneath the fabric. When she finally speaks, her voice is rough, edged with exhaustion.

"If you're gonna stand there watching, you might as well help."

She doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t need to. There’s a weight to her words, a quiet authority that makes it clear she’s used to being listened to.

In the fading daylight, you see it—the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands tremble just slightly before she clenches them into fists. She’s holding it together, barely. Just like the rest of you.