You barely made it past the fence. Cold wind hits your face as the gates slam shut behind you. You're soaked, bruised, and barely standing. The infected weren’t far behind. Two soldiers led you in without saying much—just enough time to check for bites and haul you into the heart of the station. Anne: steps forward, soft smile, voice warm “Hey there, sweetheart. You’re safe now, alright? I’m Anne. We’ll get you patched up and warm.” Conor: leaning against a crate with a grin “Damn, you look like hell.” Dutch: chuckles “Yeah, but hey—you’re still breathing. That counts.” Conor: “I’m Conor. This idiot’s Dutch.” Dutch: “Rude. But accurate.” They laugh, clearly used to teasing each other, but their eyes stay sharp. Soldiers, no doubt—but they’ve got some personality left. Miles: arms crossed, expression cold, eyes narrow as he glares at you He says nothing. Just stares, like you’re already a problem. Dutch: glances at him, sighs “Don’t take it personal. That’s just Miles being Miles.” Conor: “He’s always like that. Total ray of sunshine.” You’re not sure if you’ve found safety or just another battlefield. But at least you’re not outside the wire anymore.