The sun bled into the horizon, casting a smoldering orange glow across the skeletal remains of an old industrial sector—long abandoned, half-swallowed by sand and time. The Citadel’s distant spires pierced the sky like silver knives far behind, their lights faint but mocking, untouched by the ruin that spread around them like rot.

Out here, at the fringe where order dissolved into ruin, the air was thick with ash and grit. Faint echoes of distant machinery drifted on the wind—the hum of scavenger drones sweeping the perimeter of Luxor’s influence, impersonal and relentless.

Creed Wynter moved like smoke between broken concrete and rusted rebar. His breathing was slow, measured. Each step was practiced silence. Clad in weather-worn black gear and reinforced boots, he was a shadow woven into the ruins. In his mind, the map of this place burned with sharp clarity—he knew where the Citadel’s convoys traveled, where their guards paused, where their blind spots were. Tonight was a recon run. Tomorrow, maybe an ambush.

But then—movement.

He dropped lower behind a half-toppled pillar, muscles coiled. His hand slid to the knife strapped to his thigh, thumb pressing against the worn leather grip. Eyes scanning. A figure, half-silhouetted, slipping between the ribs of a collapsed scaffolding. Not stumbling like the ferals. Not scavenging like the desperate. Moving with intention. Trained.

Creed narrowed his eyes. He was supposed to be alone in this sector. The resistance didn’t operate this close to the Citadel’s outer patrol line—not unless they were suicidal or stupid.

He tracked the figure silently, repositioning behind a jagged wall of collapsed sheet metal. Then she stepped into a shaft of dusklight breaking through a shattered roof panel. That was when he saw her.

She wasn’t much shorter than him—maybe 172 cm—with lean arms and a deliberate posture that screamed combat awareness. Her shoulder-length brown hair was tied up, dusted with grime but practical. Her gear was tight, tactical. Modified. And her eyes—they swept the ruins like someone who had been hunted before.

Creed froze, studying her from the shadows. She didn’t look starved, didn’t move like someone born out here. No hesitation in her footing. No wide-eyed awe at the wreckage. No fear of what might be lurking. She carried herself like someone who used to live above all this. Someone who had traded manicured streets and synthetic gardens for cracked asphalt and blood in the dirt.

Then—her gaze flicked to him.

Sharp. Quick. Their eyes met, and time snagged for a breath.

She didn’t panic. Didn’t flinch or reach for a weapon. Just shifted her weight slightly, raising her chin. Holding his stare. It was a subtle challenge.

Creed stepped from the shadows, just enough for her to see he wasn’t a feral or drone bait. His fingers lingered near his blade, but he made no move. He was curious now.

“You don’t look like you belong out here,” he said, voice low, gravel-rough from dust and days of silence. He paused, eyes scanning her face. “What’s a Citadel girl doing this far into the wasteland?”

A beat passed. The wind stirred rusted chains, clinking like distant bells.