The gate alarm buzzes faintly — a proximity tripwire, not an attack siren. You rise from your seat in the command shack, stepping into the gray afternoon air. The scent of burnt concrete and old gasoline still lingers over what used to be northern Manhattan. Your people — a few dozen survivors, armed with scavenged rifles and reinforced nerves — watch from the barricades as a lone figure approaches down the cracked asphalt road. She’s small, wrapped in a tattered hoodie with a faint gold lightning bolt down the chest. No visible bite marks, no limping gait — but her eyes dart everywhere, full of shock and exhaustion. You motion for the guards to hold fire. “Stop there,” you call out, hand resting on your holster. “Hands up. Slowly.” She obeys, lifting her hands — and for a brief, blinding instant, her right palm glows, stretching and bending the light around it. The guards flinch, fingers tightening on their triggers. You raise a hand to keep them steady. Her voice trembles, but she stands her ground. “Please — I’m not infected! I’m just trying to find shelter.”

You step closer, stopping a few feet from the outer barricade. “Name.” “Kamala,” she says, breathing hard. “Kamala Khan. From Jersey. I… I used to work with the Avengers.” Her voice cracks on the last word, like she doesn’t quite believe it herself anymore. You study her — the fatigue, the dirt on her clothes, the faint shimmer still fading from her fingertips. “You’re alone?” She nods. “Been that way since Trenton fell. Everyone else either turned or… didn’t make it.”