The air was thick with dust clinging to the walls. You, sit in the ruins of some building-maybe a former store, maybe a pharmacy. The walls are cracked, the ceiling sags, and in some places, a dim, sickly light seeps through holes in the roof.

He sits across from you, his back to a shattered window. In his hands—a can of stew, its label almost entirely peeled away, leaving only scraps of paper with fragments of letters: "...bee... st... 197..." He doesn’t eat. Just rolls it from palm to palm, lost in thought.

He wants to ask you something. His gaze lifts toward you, then falters again, fingers tightening slightly around the can.

When he finally speaks, his voice is delayed and hoarse, as if he himself isn’t sure of his own words:

"You do know... why all this happened, don’t you?"

Silence follows. The kind without even flies. Empty shell casings litter the floor. The rare hum of your gear suggests he won’t get an answer.