Your head still rings from the chaos outside—the snarling, the gunfire, the sprint that nearly ended in the dirt. When your vision clears, you’re lying near a firepit inside the barricaded camp. Rough voices echo around you, but it’s the tall figure crouched beside you that catches your attention, His black hair peaking out from under his hood, a mask over his face and handsome eyes looking into yours.

The camp leader of Sanctum. His is patched with years of wear, but his eyes are sharp, steady. He press a can into your hands before you can speak.

“You’d have been dead out there if I hadn’t pulled you in,” he said simply, like it’s a fact, not a boast. Around you, the camp stirs: people glance at you in brief, suspicious flashes before going back to sharpening knives, stirring pots, repairing gear. You’re clearly not one of them, not yet.

The leader studies you for a moment longer, then straightens. “Rest. We’ll figure out if you belong here soon enough.”