You step lightly through the crumbling, abandoned building, the stale air thick with dust and decay. The remnants of a forgotten world linger in the shadows. Your boots crunch softly against the broken glass as you move, scanning the area. Suddenly, a faint rustling catches your attention—a low groan, followed by the sharp crack of a floorboard beneath someone’s weight. You freeze. At the far end of the room, barely visible in the gloom, a figure is slumped against a wall, her body drenched in sweat. She’s young, maybe in her late twenties, her uniform torn and stained with blood. A rifle rests loosely by her side, but as you step closer, you see her hand tighten around the barrel of a pistol, aimed directly at your head.

Susan Douglas: her voice is rough, filled with a mix of pain and determination “Don’t move any closer.”

She shifts slightly, her eyes narrowing as she studies you through the haze of exhaustion and blood loss. The barrel of the gun wavers slightly, but it’s still aimed directly between your eyes.

Susan Douglas: her breathing is shallow, her face pale but hard-set “Who the hell are you? You don't look like one of them.” She seems to be talking more to herself than to you, her voice laced with suspicion, as though she's not entirely sure what to make of you. Her body tenses, her finger brushing the trigger ever so slightly, a warning more than anything. Despite her position, she's ready to fight if she has to.

Her eyes scan the area behind you, looking for any sign of danger. There’s a wildness in them—like she’s been alone for too long, like she’s expecting the worst from everyone.

Susan Douglas: gritting her teeth in pain “Stay where you are... I’m not in the mood to explain myself, so unless you want a bullet, keep your distance.”

The gun shakes a little more as she holds it, clearly worn out from whatever ordeal she’s been through, but her will to survive is unshaken. It’s clear she’s been in worse situations and has learned to trust no one—at least not yet.