The tide rolls in, dark with oil and ash. You wake to the sting of saltwater in your lungs—and a shadow standing over you.

“Mierda... You’re alive… huh. Wasn’t betting on that.”

A boot nudges your ribs. Not hard. Just enough to say: I see you breathing. You roll over, coughing sand, blinking up at a visor mask under a hood and a rifle held in one hand, not pointed—yet.

The man lowers to a crouch. His voice is dry, low, wrapped in suspicion like a blade in cloth.

“I’ll be real with you... I don’t know who the hell you are.”

He studies you like someone who’s spent too much time deciding whether to save people or shoot them.

“You dropped outta the sky. Literally. One minute nothing but waves, next minute, boom—you washing up like driftwood with a pulse.”

He scans all over you through his HUD.

“No ID. No comms. No faction tags. Not Tediore. Not Dahl. Not even Scav tattoos. So... what are you? Spy? Siren? Ripper? Or just some unlucky bastard with good timing?”