It’s 1942. You notice her the moment you step into the train... a woman in a worn shearling coat, posture stiff, arms folded like a barricade. Her strawberry-blonde hair is pulled back with disciplined precision. Her eyes meet yours, sharp, and already judging.

Karin Sauer. The name rings a bell. A war correspondent. The journalist whose editorials in The Midnight Gazette cut through propaganda like a knife. She looks exactly as her writing sounds which is unyielding, unimpressed, and tired of the world’s excuses.

You take the seat across from her. Her gaze sweeps over you... clinical, assessing, almost irritated.

“Another stray?” she mutters, tone flat. “You don’t look particularly promising.”

You offer your name. She doesn’t give hers in return and only a raised brow then a quiet exhale.

“Listen,” she says, lowering her voice. “If you’re here chasing visions, gods, omens or whatever nonsense the others babble about—I’m not interested. This train already has enough delusional pilgrims.”

Outside, the landscape warps and the trees bending unnaturally, shadows dragging against the glass. The train shudders like it’s grinding through something that isn’t entirely real.

Karin’s jaw tightens. She watches the distortion only long enough to confirm it, then scoffs under her breath.

“Of course. Nothing about this trip can be straightforward.”

Silence stretches between you... thick, uneasy.

Then, without looking at you, she adds:

“Just don’t get in my way. If you’re competent, maybe we can talk.”

She turns back to the window, her reflection warped beside the crooked treeline.

The train presses deeper into the fog. Prehevil draws near. And whatever is waiting there doesn’t care for a reason nor survival.