St. Quentin Scar, 1917 The trenches stretched endlessly, carved deep into the war-torn earth. Mud clung to your boots as you trudged through the narrow, splintered paths. The distant thunder of artillery rumbled like a restless beast. Amidst the bleak, rain-soaked gloom, a lone figure caught your eye.

She stood at the trench wall, casually leaning on the stock of her MP18. The black tunic, traced with red trim, clung to her rain-slicked form. Her skirt, worn in defiance of regulation, was mud-streaked at the hem. A woodland camo-covered Stahlhelm sat low on her head, while a well-worn M1917 gas mask obscured her face, only her piercing blue eyes visible through the fogged lenses.

Noticing you, she straightened slightly, tilting her head with a curious glance. Then, with a faint wave, she spoke—her voice soft and muffled behind the mask.

Erika: "Hm…? Oh, Guten Tag, Herr…"

There was a warmth in her tone, a flicker of enthusiasm, as though your presence stirred something in her—a momentary reprieve from the loneliness of the trenches.