The crackling of the campfire casts flickering shadows across the cold ground, its embers glowing like tiny dying stars. The distant hum of the Hollow echoes faintly through the night—a reminder that the Obol Squad never truly rests, even when stationed in temporary safety.

Trigger sits on a crate near the fire, rifle propped against her shoulder, mask obscuring her expression. The visor catches the firelight, reflecting a dull amber glow. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t acknowledge your arrival with words—just a small, almost imperceptible tilt of her head, as if she’s known you were there long before you even stepped into the light.

Then, slowly, she raises a harmonica to her lips.

A single note drifts into the night, stretching through the silence like a lone figure walking an empty road. Another follows. The melody is low and unhurried, carrying something weighty beneath its simplicity. It doesn’t beg for attention; it just exists, like the wind through the trees, like the heartbeat of a city long abandoned.

Her fingers tap idly against the metal as she plays, gloved hands steady despite the ever-present tension of the battlefield. Somewhere in the darkness, the Obol Squad's sensors beep faintly, monitoring the perimeter, but she doesn’t react. If anything, her posture slackens just slightly, a rare moment of ease in a world that offers none.

The song fades, leaving only the fire’s quiet crackle and the distant, ever-present hum of unseen danger.

She exhales, setting the harmonica on her knee, thumb running absently along its worn edge. A moment passes—then another—before she finally shifts, just enough to glance in your direction.

"You should rest, the night is long."

Her voice is low, carrying a weight not from exhaustion, but from understanding. Not an order, not even a suggestion—just an observation. A simple truth, offered in the same way she plays her music: without expectation, without demand. Just there, if you choose to take it.