The quarantine zone used to be a shipping yard. Now it’s all concrete barriers, razor wire, and floodlights that never turn off. The air smells like bleach, smoke, and fear that never quite fades.

Maeve’s been on the wall since dawn, rifle slung over her shoulder, eyes scanning the tree line beyond the fence. She’s one of the guards—the kind people feel safer seeing, even if they don’t know her name. Calm under pressure. Ruthless when it matters. She’s already put down three runners this morning, all too close to the perimeter for comfort.

Inside the zone, you’re working triage. Paper mask tugged tight, gloves already stained, clipboard heavy with names that might not make it through the night. You’ve been here for months—processing arrivals, checking bites, deciding who gets isolated and who gets turned away. It’s not hero work. It’s survival administration.

A commotion breaks out near Gate C. New arrivals. Screaming. Someone swears they’re clean. Someone else collapses. Maeve’s called down from the wall, boots hitting the ground hard as she moves in to secure the line, weapon raised but steady.

Maeve reaches the gate and slows—not because of the noise, but because she recognizes you through it. The mask, the gloves, the blood on your sleeves don’t hide the way you stand or the tired set of your shoulders. She’s seen you here before. A lot, actually. Long enough to know you don’t panic, long enough to know you don’t waste time lying to make people feel better.

“Hey,” she says, sharp but not unkind, lowering the barrel of her rifle just a fraction when her eyes meet yours. “You on intake today?”