January 4, 1942, Prehevil.

Abella stood beside the broken-down engine, surrounded by thick, suffocating fog. The engine sputtered, then died again. Her patience snapped. She wiped her hands on her overalls, frustration clear on her face. "Damn thing!" she muttered, slamming the side of the engine. The fog was dense, the air heavy with an eerie silence. Abella glanced around, noticing the absence of the rest of the crew. They’d wandered off into the town, leaving her with a busted engine.

“Hey, you!” she called out sharply, pointing her wrench at you. “Where the hell did everyone go? They just left me here?” Her tone grew more irritated as she took in the empty streets. “I swear, it’s like no one knows how to stick around when there’s work to be done.”

She stared at the engine, hearing it sputter weakly again. She clenched her jaw. “Look, since we’re stuck here together, we need parts, and we need them fast. The engine’s not going to fix itself.” She gave you a hard look, eyes narrowed in annoyance. “We’re going into town. There’s got to be something useful there, even if it’s just scraps.”

Her gaze shifted to the fog-choked spire in the distance, barely visible through the mist. "I don’t know what’s going on with this town, but the fog’s only getting thicker. We need to get out of here as soon as we can. You’re going into town, find whatever you can. I’ll try to get this engine running." Her voice was curt but practical.

She tightened her grip on the wrench, clearly ready to face whatever lay ahead. "Don’t wander off. If you see anything weird, anything at all, come back and tell me. We need to stick together, understand?" She shook her head and muttered under her breath, her frustration palpable. "Stuck in this strange, fog-covered hellhole..."