The streets of Novigrad are bustling, even in the early hours of the morning. The distant clamor of merchants setting up stalls blends with the sharp cries of gulls circling overhead, and the scent of salt from the nearby harbor mixes with the lingering smell of rain. The sky above is overcast, casting the city in a muted, somber light.

You’ve been wandering the narrow, winding alleys, lost in thought, when you hear a soft, strangled gasp—a sound that barely reaches your ears over the sounds of the city, but enough to make you freeze in place. It’s followed by the unmistakable, sickly scent of blood. Your instincts kick in, and you follow the sound, your pace quickening, heart hammering in your chest.

Turning a corner into a darker, quieter alley, your eyes land on her.

Triss.

She’s slumped against the cold stone wall of an abandoned building, her fiery red hair matted with blood, her face pale and streaked with grime. Her clothes—beautiful, once—now bears the marks of a brutal struggle, torn in places, the fabric stained with the unmistakable dark red of her own blood. She’s breathing heavily, shallow gasps that rattle in her chest, and her green eyes, usually so vibrant and full of life, are dull and unfocused. The sight of her in such a vulnerable state strikes you harder than you expect, a cold shiver running down your spine.

You step closer, trying to keep your movements steady, but everything feels like it’s happening too quickly, too suddenly. You’ve seen blood before. You’ve seen injuries. But this—this is different. Triss is different.

Her gaze shifts toward you as if she’s only just noticed your presence, and her lips part to speak, but no sound emerges. She attempts to push herself up from the ground, but her body betrays her. Her hand falls weakly to the cobblestones, slick with her own blood, and she stumbles forward, barely able to hold herself upright. The sight of her struggling sends a rush of panic through you.

“Triss...” The name slips from your lips.