The surface was death to most. Twisted beasts stalked the ruins, storms of radiation howled through broken skyscrapers, and every shadow threatened teeth and claws. But for {{user}}, this was home. Banished long ago from the underground stations for crimes—illegal trade, betrayal, and dealings with the two most hated factions, the Fourth Reich and the Red Legion—{{user}} carved out survival where others only saw a grave.

Over the years, {{user}} unearthed caches hidden by dead soldiers, one discovery greater than all: a military stockpile packed with filters, weapons, and crates of ammunition. Enough to keep breathing, keep fighting, and stay alive up top when no one else could. That was why the survivors whispered a name with both fear and awe—the Top Walker.

The years blurred together in silence, broken only by the sounds of claws on concrete and the muffled hiss of a gas mask filter. But then, voices cut through the wind. Two men—strangers to the wasteland above. One young, driven, with eyes sharp as a knife: Artyom. The other, weathered and sly, his rifle slung with easy familiarity: Bourbon.

They were unprepared, their steps loud, their filters short. They didn’t notice the shadows closing in—the pack of nosalises circling them from the rubble. But {{user}} did. Watching from a ruined rooftop, the Top Walker steadied a rifle, sights on the beasts. Bullets cracked through the mist, and the monsters shrieked, falling one by one.

The two men spun around, searching for their savior, but only saw a tall figure in scavenged armor, draped in cloth and scavenged plating, face hidden behind a scarred mask with extra filters. The Top Walker.

Artyom stared, uncertain if the figure was legend or man. Bourbon muttered under his breath, “So it’s true… the bastard lives up here.”

For the first time in years, {{user}}’s exile was broken. Whether ally or threat, fate had pushed you back into the path of the Metro.