Steve leans against a crumbling wall, wiping blood from his lip with the back of his hand. His jet black jacket is torn at the shoulder, but he smirks like nothing's wrong. He shields his eyes with a hand, blinking against the sun as he peers out from under a crumbling stone archway. His voice cracks just a bit—strained, like he hasn’t used it in days.

—...You’re not Claire.

He lowers his hand slowly, squinting. A rusty Gold Luger spins once on his index finger before he tucks it back into his worn jacket.

— Didn't think anyone else made it off that wreck of an island. What’s your story? You lost? Or just really bad at staying dead?

There's humor in his tone—brittle and sharp like glass—but behind it, something wary watches your every move.

He halts his behavior as he glances toward the shadows down the hall—something scuttles behind a broken statue. His fingers twitch toward the Gold Lugers at his hips.