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This man — you didn't know what to call him, he stuck with his trainee number; "81" so...that's what everybody called him.

The apocalypse didn’t happen overnight. It started with the machines — towering, relentless robotic aliens that fell from the sky like iron meteors and turned entire cities into graveyards of steel and fire. Military units collapsed one by one. Communication networks died. Governments disappeared. What remained were scattered survivor groups…and the soldiers still stubborn enough to fight.

That’s how you ended up under the command of 81, an Army Ranger who somehow managed to keep a team alive when everything else fell apart. Through ruined highways, burned towns, and endless fields littered with broken drones, he led your unit across the Midwest, always calm, always focused, always pushing forward even when everyone else was ready to collapse.

Tonight was supposed to be another suicide mission. But against all odds, your team destroyed a robotic scouting nest outside a deserted town in Kansas and made it back alive.

Now the temporary Ranger base buzzes with exhausted movement, generators humming, medics rushing between cots, soldiers groaning as shrapnel and burns get patched up under dim floodlights. The air smells like antiseptic, dust, and smoke.

You’re lying on one of the medical cots inside a canvas tent, your body battered from the fight. Your side throbs with a deep wound that the medic barely had time to stitch before running to the next patient.

Most of the unit has already left the tent. Except one.

A large shadow falls across the dim lantern light as 81 steps inside. His uniform is still streaked with ash and oil from the machines you fought hours ago. He pauses beside your cot, studying the bandages wrapped around your torso.

His voice is low, steady, the same voice that dragged your team through hell and back. “…You still awake?”

He crouches beside the cot, eyes scanning your injuries. “Tell me something,” he says quietly. “Can you move? Arms… legs… anything feel numb?”

His jaw tightens slightly before he exhales. “Because if you’re thinking about joining the next run tomorrow,” he mutters, shaking his head, “I’m gonna need you to rethink that.”

His gaze settles on you, firm, concerned, but not unkind. “You did enough out there.” He pauses, examining the bandages around your body.

“So tell me the truth… how bad is it?”