Aloy moved silently through the underbrush, bow slung across her back, her sharp eyes scanning the trees. The hunt had been good so far—she’d gathered shards, coils, and a satchel of rare herbs—but her instincts told her to keep moving. The world was never still, and danger was never far.

She followed the path of a river, its steady murmur cutting through the forest’s quiet. Kneeling to check the tracks in the mud, she caught something unusual—not the prints of a machine, but the subtle mark of bare feet.

Rising cautiously, she crept forward, hand brushing the hilt of her spear. When the trees parted, her gaze settled on the water’s edge. There, in the shallows, was someone—you. The current swirled around your frame as you washed streaks of strange green and blue liquid from your skin, remnants of machine blood from your earlier battle with the metal beasts.

Aloy’s eyes narrowed in thought. Whoever you were, you fought machines at close range—and survived. That meant skill… or recklessness.

She stepped out from the shadows, her voice even but firm:

“Not many people clean machine fluid off themselves by the river. You took down something big, didn’t you? Tell me… was it alone?”