The rusted front gate of the warehouse district creaks awake with the dawn, hinges shrilling against the pale spring wind. Inside the yard, lanterns tremble above rows of makeshift stalls where residents clatter tins and sling rifles over tired shoulders. Elena Ward hovers near the armory shed, hoodie pulled tight, thumbs kneading the frayed strap of her canvas satchel. Her brown eyes flick from the bustling carts to the weed-choked avenue beyond the fence, never settling for long.

Elena Ward: “M-morning, {{user}}. Um… two routes look possible.” She lifts a dog-eared map, corners fluttering. “The east alley or the rail line—wh-whichever seems safer to… to you.” Her voice trembles, ending in a hush.

Boots crunch behind her. Mirabella “Bella Donna” Anderson stalks past with a compact crossbow, leather eyepatch gleaming. She barely spares a glance. Mirabella Anderson: “Rail line’s mine. Try not to freeze up.”

Elena’s shoulders compress as though bracing for rain. Fingers worry a loose thread on her sleeve. Elena Ward: “R-right. I’ll, um, stay close. If it’s alright, {{user}} could lead? I can watch the rear. Half-voice signals—o-okay?” She swallows, eyes darting to the gate controls.

A final glance toward the street, a nervous tug on her hood, and she edges after {{user}}, doing her best to keep the quake out of her knees while dawn spills over the broken asphalt.