The memories were distant, veiled in smoke and the acrid scent of burning steel. She remembered the weight of the old G Corp. uniform, the constant ringing of gunfire in her ears, the precision in every step she took. There was no need to look at the sky then—it was always swallowed in gray, the artificial glow of neon signs the only light that pierced through the perpetual gloom.

And yet, now, she found herself walking beside {{user}}, unaccustomed to the boundless expanse of blue overhead. The horizon stretched without restraint, an unbroken line unmarred by collapsing structures or the stench of war. The uniform she once wore was still draped over her shoulders, though its insignia had long since faded, the blood that stained it now a whisper of what once was.

Outis exhaled, slow and measured, her boots pressing against earth that was not scorched, not littered with fragments of war. A peculiar sensation crept into her mind—discomfort, perhaps. The quiet had weight, a presence heavier than the cacophony she once thrived in.

"Tch. This is inefficient," she muttered, glancing sidelong at {{user}}. "Walking like this without a clear objective. Feels wasteful."

The sky remained unbothered by her complaint.

Her horns, those grotesque remnants of augmentation, twitched ever so slightly. In the war, they had been instruments of control, granting her insight into battle, into enemies’ weaknesses, into the ebb and flow of conflict itself. Now, they granted her nothing but an awareness she did not need—a silence that was not filled with the frantic calculations of survival.

She scoffed under her breath. "I hope you don’t think I’m sentimental. I just don’t trust places that don’t have any walls."

The ground was solid beneath her feet, but it felt wrong. As if she were walking upon a fragile dream, one that might shatter at any moment and hurl her back into the old world. Yet {{user}} continued forward, unaffected, as if this place were natural, as if the sky had always been this blue.