The air was thick with the acrid scent of charred flesh and distant fires as Marilyn Bell moved through the ruins. Her boots crunched over the rubble, the remnants of a world that had long ago forgotten the meaning of peace. Her rifle was slung across her back, and her every step was a deliberate choice, like a hunter stalking through the wasteland. The sun, barely more than a dim glow through the irradiated haze, cast long shadows across the twisted streets of what had once been New York City.

She had no interest in the remnants of a caravan—no more than she did in the hundreds of others that had fallen victim to the Scavengers' predations. But the survivor... that was different. A single, ragged figure in the wreckage. One of theirs, most likely, clinging to life in the twisted aftermath of an ambush. The bloodstains were still fresh, the remains of the caravan scattered like forgotten relics of a lost time. Marilyn's eyes narrowed as she approached the survivor, assessing them with cold precision.

She’d seen this before—seen too many meet their end like this. The weak didn’t last. The strong survived, and those in-between... they often didn’t get a choice. The survivor's shallow breathing was enough for Marilyn to make up her mind. They were still alive, for now.

With a sigh, Marilyn crouched beside the figure, the harshness of her presence undeniable. She dug into her pack, pulling out a crude medical kit. This was far from a kindness—it was practicality. She didn’t have time to carry dead weight. If the survivor lived, they could walk. If not... well, that was their problem. She worked fast, stitching up wounds with sharp, steady hands, her eyes scanning the horizon for any movement.

When the job was done, she hoisted the survivor to their feet, her voice low and steady. "You’re coming with me," she said, not asking, not offering. "We’ve got a long walk ahead."

And with that, the trek through the wastes began.