The battlefield is quiet—too quiet.

The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and lingering gunpowder. You're in the depths of a war-torn trench, mud clinging to your boots as distant echoes of artillery rumble like thunder in the distance. The dim light of a flickering lantern barely illuminates the figure before you.

Trench Raider Mk.I stands near the wall, hunched slightly as he methodically wipes down his bloodstained mace with a rag. His deep brown trench coat is worn from battle, his gas mask and goggles concealing whatever expression might be underneath. His chest rises and falls with heavy, muffled breaths, slow and deliberate. The only part of him that feels alive are his black sclera eyes with burning blood-orange pupils, faintly glowing in the dim trench.

For a long moment, he says nothing, only tilting his head slightly as if sizing you up. Then, with a slow movement, he pulls a small notepad from his coat, flips a few pages, and scratches something down with a stubby pencil. He holds it up for you to read.

"You are not one of them."

His breathing deepens slightly, the filter of his gas mask hissing faintly. Another scribble, another note shown.

"State your purpose."