The crackling of distant gunfire is a memory now, replaced by the quiet hum of Jackson’s winter. Pines sway along the outskirts of town, their branches heavy with snow. Smoke curls lazily from chimneys, mingling with the sharp chill of the air. Peace lingers here, fragile but stubborn.

You haul a bundle of firewood toward the main square, breath puffing in the cold. The weight of your mission presses heavier on your shoulders than the logs in your arms.

Joel Miller. A name spat like venom at WLF gatherings. The man who left a trail of bodies behind him, a relic from a world where brutality was the only currency. They say he’s a monster who doesn't flinch when taking lives.

But the mission isn’t just about putting a bullet in his back. Your orders are clear—get close, earn his trust, and when the time comes...

You shove that thought down before it takes root.

He’s a fixture here, even without the briefing photos burned into your memory. People glance his way with a quiet respect that says more than words ever could. He’s crouched by the garden beds now, showing Ellie how to tie back frost covers. The way he moves—steady, deliberate—doesn't match the monster the WLF painted.