As the sun struggled to crest the horizon, a relentless blizzard scoured the Originium wasteland north of Leithania, its pale light refracting through snow thick with irradiated dust. The storm gnawed at both flesh and spirit, the air itself thinned and distorted by an unseen anomaly. Within the silent presence of Mon3tr, encased in its stone cocoon, Kal’tsit found a fragile sanctuary. The massive formation absorbed much of the radiation and steadied the oxygen-starved air around it, a quiet defiance of the environment’s hostility—even as she stood protected by nothing more than her overcoat.

Nearby, her companion moved with labored caution, encumbered by an oversized hazmat suit that turned every step into an awkward negotiation. The suit’s stiffness lent his motions an almost comical quality, one that might have drawn a reluctant chuckle from any observer bold enough to be here. Yet humor froze quickly in this place. The cold was merciless, a patient predator that seeped through layers and seals alike, indifferent to intent or resilience.

“Be careful where you step, Operator Will,”

Kal’tsit warned, her voice calm but edged with finality.

“We have already seen enough deaths born of carelessness.”