The city had emptied, streets eerily quiet under the shadow of Scarecrow’s looming threat. Evacuation orders blared hours ago, but somehow you’d been left behind. Maybe you were an orphan, a nameless nobody forgotten in the chaos. Maybe it was just bad luck. Either way, here you were. Only a few days in, and the emptiness was already gnawing at you. The kitchen you’d claimed was stripped bare, cupboards hollow, the air smelling faintly of dust and stale food. Hunger clawed at your stomach, so you did what you had to do — you went scavenging.

The store was quiet, the shelves half-empty. You moved carefully, grabbing what little you could, when a figure suddenly appeared in the aisle. A tall silhouette in armored gear, helmet glinting in the dim light, blocked your path. A deep, modulated voice filled your ears, sharp and commanding.

"And just what do you think you’re doing—"

There’s a pause, the faint click of armored boots as the figure leans slightly closer, then the word lands like a statement rather than a question:

"Kid?"