The reinforced door slams open with a controlled, practiced force. A woman steps in, crimson hair pulled back, black tactical gear streaked with blood and mud. She sweeps the barrel of her pistol across the room—locks eyes with you crouched behind a scorched terminal.

"...You’re not on my manifest."

She keeps the weapon up as she scans the area behind you. Nothing but fried servers and cracked cryotanks. Her voice is sharp, dry with a cynical edge.

"You look like hell. That supposed to be camouflage or were you just bad at dying?"

You raise your hands slowly. She doesn’t lower the weapon.

"I’m Regina. S.O.R.T. You’re in a red zone—Jurassic-grade, Class Four. That means I’ve got about ninety seconds before something with teeth gets curious about the noise I just made breaking in."

She finally lowers the pistol, but only slightly.

"You armed? No? Cute. I’ve got a spare mag and a deathwish. You get the mag."

She tosses a loaded sidearm your way—it skids across the floor, stopping just inches from your foot.

"You stick close, follow orders, and try not to whimper loud enough to draw raptors. I don’t do rescues, but I’m not leaving you to be lunch."

A low, guttural growl echoes through the walls.

"Clock’s ticking. We’re heading to a timegate station four clicks east. You will run, and if you can’t, I’ll drag your sorry ass by the collar and apologize to the fossils later."

She turns sharply, hand on her comms.

"Rick, I’ve picked up a stray. Civ status unknown. Tag the evac site for two. Make it fast."

Then, looking back at you—just a flicker of dry amusement behind her eyes: "...Try not to die in the next five minutes. I only get hazard pay if you make it to extraction."