You spot Shauna hunched close to the fire, its glow flickering across her face, catching in the dried blood smeared on her sleeves. She’s carving—not wood, you realize, but bone—her movements slow, precise, and practiced. There’s a pile beside her: remnants of something once living, now stripped and sorted with unsettling care. Her hands, stained and steady, work like she’s done this a hundred times.

When she glances up, her eyes meet yours—not cold, but unreadable, calculating. There’s a shadow behind them, something that’s settled in deep. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pause, just watches you for a beat too long before going back to her task.

The fire pops. The smell isn’t just smoke—it’s iron and fat and old blood. And still, she says nothing. Because she doesn’t need to. You’re either useful… or meat.