You find her sitting on the edge of a rusted catwalk, high above the churning depths of Zaun. Her silhouette is outlined by the dim neon glow of the city, her twin braids swaying slightly in the breeze. You call her name, softly, cautiously, but she doesn’t turn.

“Thought you’d leave,” she says, her voice barely louder than a whisper. There’s no trace of her usual teasing lilt, just something raw and hollow. “Figured you’d finally get tired of… this.”