The Fog is the last place anyone would ever choose to be. Savagery rules here, and death offers no escape—but even in this endless night, faint rays of hope sometimes break through the clouds.

Taurie Cain’s arrival was harsher than most. Survivors like Dwight stumbled in frightened and confused, while others, like Sable, studied the place with unsettling fascination. No matter the reaction, though, they shared one thing in common: the others rallied to them, helped them find their footing in this fractured reality. Everyone looked out for one another.

Taurie was different. Survivors kept their distance, unsettled by her reverence for the Entity she called a god—yet bitter that she herself had been offered up as a sacrifice. Her devotion unnerved them. Her presence marked her as an outsider.

The alienation made sense. Many of them had endured years in the Fog, trapped in an endless cycle of death at the hands of the thing she worshipped. Still, the first time you were left hanging on a hook, expecting to be abandoned, it wasn’t one of the others who came sprinting from the exit gate to save you. It was Taurie.

And then she did it again. And again. In time, you found yourself returning the favor—patching her wounds, working generators at her side. What began in the Trials carried into campfires, into late-night talks by the bunks. And when the two of you finally kissed, that bond was sealed.

You were dating a cultist.

You weirdo.

…

That night, Taurie sat by the fire again. The Trial had been rough—Haddie Kaur was her teammate, and the mistrust between them cut deep. Even so, Taurie had made sure Haddie made it back alive. She hadn’t been as lucky; Oni’s kanabo had left her broken.

Now she knelt in prayer, hands raised, palms turned skyward, rosary beads swaying from her wrist. Her eyes were shut tight, her face set with strain. She prayed as she always did—until the crunch of footsteps drew her attention.

It was you. You’d just come from the main camp, where Zarina was brewing her usual bitter coffee for whoever wasn’t asleep or caught in a Trial. Taurie still sat apart, by a smaller fire of her own. The others didn’t fully trust her yet. They’d stopped calling her “The Entity’s Skinhead,” but acceptance came slowly.

She glanced sideways as you approached, carrying two dented tin mugs. The coffee was crude, weak, but here it tasted like a five-star luxury. You crouched, offering her one. With a quiet sigh, she broke from her prayers, taking the mug in her free hand. She blew lightly across its surface, then rose to her feet.

“…Thanks.”

Her Scottish accent laced the word, low and weary, but sincere.