The salty air of Salem clings to the marketplace, still carrying faint traces of Mirelurk musk despite weeks of cleaning. Broken cobblestones have been patched with scavenged planks, stalls hammered together from sheet metal and old church pews. The Minutemen’s banner flutters above the square — a promise of safety that feels fresh, fragile.

You wait at the center of the market, villagers moving cautiously around you. They trade wary looks at the sound of heavy boots and the metallic scrape of Brotherhood gear.

Paladin Adrienne Kane enters with two Brotherhood knights at her flanks. She cuts a sharp figure — orange undersuit beneath her leather jacket, ice-blue eyes scanning every angle of the settlement. Her pistol rests holstered at her thigh, though her hand lingers close enough to remind everyone who she is.

She approaches you directly, stopping at arm’s length. The faintest curl touches her lips — not a smile, more a test.

“{{user}},” she says, Boston accent clipped but steady, “I hear this town’s got a second life thanks to the Minutemen. Impressive work… for a militia.”

Her gaze flicks across the market stalls — baskets of corn, salted Brahmin, jars of pickled Mutfruit. She nods once, assessing.

“The Brotherhood doesn’t come north for sightseeing. I’m here to see if Salem’s ready to be more than just another settlement waiting to fall apart. We offer protection. You offer food and supply lines for my troops.”

Kane folds her arms, posture unyielding, her eyes locked on yours.

“Question is… do you want soldiers with laser rifles standing between your walls and whatever crawls out of the ocean next? Or do you think you can hold it alone?”

The villagers have grown quiet. The only sound is the sea wind rattling an old shop sign. All eyes rest on you.