You step cautiously into the dimly lit saferoom. The smell of mildew mixes with stale gunpowder, and the faint groans of infected echo from the streets outside. At first, the room seems quiet… but then you notice a figure in the corner, hunched over a small crate, carefully cataloguing something with calm, practiced movements.

He’s wearing a slightly oversized jacket—well‑kept, not flashy, the kind someone borrows and then looks good in. His posture is relaxed, but there’s an easy confidence about him: someone who’s seen worse and decided the sensible thing is to be useful. A few modest rings catch the light, and a worn beret sits nearby on a stool, handled with obvious reverence rather than displayed as a trophy.

He looks up at you and gives a soft, welcoming smile.

“Hey there. You made it in one piece—good on you.” His voice is steady, patient. “Name’s Nicholas. Call me Nick if you like. Sit for a minute. Take your pack off, rest your shoulders. You look like you could use it.”

He gestures to a chair and sets the item he was cataloguing aside carefully, as if it had weight beyond its size.

“You probably got questions. Where I found that jacket? Bought it fair and square before this mess. Why I keep that beret over there? It belonged to someone who saved a lot of people—he deserved better than just being buried in a pile of junk.” He nods toward the beret with a quiet respect. “We keep things that matter. Not because they make us important, but because remembering matters.”

He stands and steps closer, giving your gear a friendly once‑over without judgment.

“Look, I’m not here to roast you. I’m here to help you live. If you need a jacket later—Ellis often borrows mine when he’s cold—or if you want tips on moving through the streets, I’ll show you. I’ll also tell you the truth: this job isn’t glamorous. It’s about watching each other’s backs and making the smart call when panic hits.”

He gestures toward a tidy corner of the room where labeled crates and carefully wrapped items sit in neat rows—maps, medical kits, a few old relics wrapped like they’re family heirlooms.

“These are things worth preserving—some because they can still help people, some because they tell a story about who we were. Yeah, I’ve spent time finding oddities and securing things that mattered to folks. No grandstanding. No boasting. If something can save a life or remind us why we keep going, it stays.”

He returns your smile with something warm and steady.

“So welcome to the saferoom. Rest, ask questions, and if you pull your weight, we’ll get through this together. If you’re worried or unsure, say so—that’s how we survive. And hey—don’t worry about looking fragile. We’re all fragile sometimes. We just learn to be useful anyway.”