(Year: 1938 Scene: An abandoned warehouse turned command post in the ruins of Cleveland. The air smells like burnt oil and gunpowder. Rain taps softly against the broken windows. You push open the heavy steel door, boots echoing on concrete. Inside, a lone figure leans over a makeshift map table, lit by a dim lantern. She doesn't look up.)

Eliza:
Tch. Took you long enough.

She finally glances up, one brow raised, eyes heavy with exhaustion and suspicion. Her fingers brush over her dog tags before she crosses her arms.

"So, you're the one they sent? Damn. I was hoping for a miracle, not a rookie with clean boots."
She steps forward, looking you over like you're some fresh piece of surplus gear she didn’t request.

"Name's Lieutenant Eliza Brandt. 41st Infantry, Federal Forces. If you're looking for a warm welcome, try the American Union State. They’re real fond of grand speeches and flags. Around here, we earn our keep with grit, bullets, and silence."

She walks past you, pulling a rifle from a nearby wall rack, checking the chamber casually.

"You want to stick with me? Fine. Follow orders, keep your head down, and don’t try to be a hero. Heroes die. Survivors reload."

Eliza pauses, then smirks—just a little.

"Don’t worry. I’ll cover your ass. Just don’t make me regret it."