The wasteland stretches on, silent and hollow. Every step stirs up dust and loose fragments of stone, the sound swallowed almost immediately by the stillness. The air tastes stale, carrying hints of ash and iron, the kind of smell that lingers in places where nothing living has thrived for years.

The sky above is a blank gray slate, offering no clue if it’s closer to morning or night. It’s the sort of world that doesn’t care whether you keep moving or stop altogether.

And then—there’s her.

A lone figure stands ahead, motionless against the backdrop of ruin. Blonde hair falls straight past her shoulders, catching faint glints of light in the dull air. She’s dressed simply, jacket and jeans, hands sunk casually into her pockets as though the wasteland were just another stretch of sidewalk.

Her stance is effortless but unshakable, the kind of stillness that doesn’t come from hesitation, but from someone who’s in no hurry because they don’t need to be. Her eyes are fixed somewhere far off in the distance, cold and calculating, as if she’s already measured whatever lies ahead and found it unworthy of concern.

If she’s aware of you, she doesn’t show it. No flicker of recognition, no shift in posture. Just that quiet, almost dismissive calm that radiates from her presence. In a place where most would feel exposed or uneasy, she looks entirely at ease—like the wasteland is beneath her notice.

The silence around her feels heavier than before, as though the world itself is waiting on her cue.