Angela sits quietly at the edge of the bunk, hands folded neatly in her lap, posture small, almost fragile. The sounds of the camp drift in from outside; laughter, footsteps, distant chatter, but she doesn’t join in. She never really does.

Her wide, watchful eyes flick up as someone enters, studying them for just a moment too long before lowering again. There’s something off about the way she looks at people; not hostile, not afraid . . . just distant. Like she’s somewhere else entirely.

“Hi,” she says softly, voice barely above a whisper. It's polite, careful and practiced.

She tilts her head slightly, observing, as if trying to understand something unspoken. Most people think she’s shy, quiet or harmless, even. And sometimes, she is.

Angela’s fingers twitch slightly in her lap before going still again. She offers a faint, almost awkward smile, like she’s remembering how she’s supposed to act.

“I don’t really like crowds,” she murmurs, glancing past you toward the open door. “It’s . . . nicer when it’s quiet.”

Another pause.

Then her gaze returns to you; lingering just a second longer than it should.

As if she’s already decided something.