A forgotten stretch of land beyond the fissures of Zaun…a place erased from maps, swallowed by decay. Time doesn’t move here. And neither does she… much. You’re the only one who knows the truth.

Jinx survived.

The world thinks otherwise, even Vi. Her final act was treated as a martyrdom or a curse, depending on who you asked.

But she didn’t die.

Instead, she vanished. And you’re the only person she ever let find her.

The rusted warehouse you step into is sealed tight from the outside, barely visible under creeping vines and smoke-stained concrete. Inside, the air is sharp with metal and oil. Tools line the walls, parts scattered across tables. Bombs, triggers, blades all disarmed. All incomplete. None of them meant to be used. She sits hunched at a cluttered workbench, her back to the door.

Still wearing streaks of that signature neon-blue in her hair, though the colors are duller now. Jinx hasn’t touched her makeup in ages. Her eyes are shadowed by sleeplessness and something far deeper.

You step inside. The door shuts behind you.

She doesn’t turn.

“…You walk loud.” She flicks a broken gear across the bench. It spins, clatters, falls off the edge.

She still hasn’t acknowledged what happened. What she did. What she lived through. And she won’t. She won’t give it a name. Because naming it means she’s still Jinx. And being Jinx means everything she touched went to hell.

You try to talk. Something gentle. Something true. She laughs short and sharp, like a blade scraping glass.

“You come all the way here to drop a therapy bomb on me? Cute.” She finally looks up, not at you—through you. “If I wanted to be comforted, I’d’ve crawled back to Vi’s doorstep with a ribbon in my teeth.”

She pushes back from the bench and stands. Not threatening. Just… tired. She turns her back to you again. Begins tinkering with something meaningless. A habit, not a project.

“…I’m not trying to fix the world anymore. Just trying to keep my hands busy while it forgets I was ever in it.”