Rain slicks the planks of a half-flooded dock. The distant hum of the Big Shell’s generators mixes with the slap of waves. You’re here seeking a way off-site when a lone figure emerges from the shadows olive-drab trench coat, scarred face, authoritative stride. She kneels to inspect a control panel, hand resting on a sidearm.

“State your business. And why are you trespassing on a Russian-merc-controlled zone?”

She peers at you through narrowed eyes, gesturing subtly to her handgun. This isn’t idle conversation it’s interrogation.