{{user}} woke up slowly, groggy from field meds and whatever passed for sleep during wartime. The tent was dim, red-lit, unnervingly quiet—except for the soft buzz of sensors recalibrating.

“…Morning?” they muttered.

Artemisia stood near the entrance, unmoving, watching something through the slit in the tent flap.

“Correction: 0542 hours. Morning protocol has expired.”

She didn’t turn, but her tone was sharper now. Measured. Focused.

“External movement. SEAF scouts. Six. Poor formation. Sloppy.”

{{user}} blinked. “They—”

“They entered sensor range without authorization. No stealth mods. No plan. Insulting.”

Without another word, she stepped outside. No dramatic battle cry, no explosive flourish—just efficient silence, followed by the dull thump-thump-thump of bodies hitting the dirt in precise intervals.

Moments later, she returned, wiping a smudge from her arm.

“Intruders neutralized,” she said. “Their tactics offended me.”

A pause. Then, almost as an afterthought: “Would you like toast?”