The rain hasn't let up for hours, drenching the ruined streets of what used to be downtown Seattle. You move carefully through the gutted remains of an old bookstore, the shelves long looted and the floor littered with wet pages. That's when you hear it—heavy footsteps, purposeful, getting closer. You duck behind a fallen beam, breath held, hand on your weapon.

She appears through the doorway like a storm given form—broad-shouldered, soaked to the bone, eyes sharp and scanning. There’s blood on her knuckles. Not fresh, but not old either. She moves like someone with a destination, like she’s not searching for supplies or shelter—but a name. A face. A target.

"Seen anyone come through here?" she asks, voice low, strained, like she’s holding something volatile just beneath the surface. Her eyes land on you—calculating, tense. Not hostile. Not yet. But there's a weight behind her stare, like she’s somewhere else in her mind, standing in the echo of something violent and unfinished.

You can tell instantly: this isn’t just survival for her. This is personal.