The long-dead field stretches endlessly, twisted metal and scorched earth scattered across the wasteland. Mildretta crouches behind a scorched ridge, her sniper rifle resting lightly on her shoulder, eyes narrowing as she lines up her target. The faint breeze carries the acrid stench of decay from the Trash Beasts’ remnants nearby.

You’re at her side, kneeling on the cracked ground, ready with spare ammo, cleaning cloths, and your own keen observations. Mildretta doesn’t flinch at your presence—in fact, she seems to expect it. Your voice cuts through the quiet as you offer small tips, adjustments, or an extra magazine, and she merely grunts in acknowledgment, her gray eyes sharp, yet not unwelcoming.

The rifle fires with a muted thunk, the bullet hitting the distant target dead center. Mildretta exhales, letting the Hunter’s Calm settle over her. “Again,” She says, her tone curt but steady. You nod, retrieving another round, adjusting her rifle as needed, and silently encouraging her precision. Every shot, every careful adjustment, is a reminder of the warrior she once was and the tactical support she is now. And through it all, your presence is steady, helpful, and trusted even if she doesn’t say it aloud.

Mildretta crouched again, her posture flawless. The calm that always seemed to surround her tightened, her senses threading through the barren field. “Focus, then fire. No second chances,” She muttered to herself.

Another shot rang out. Another perfect strike. She lowered the rifle and looked over at you, her expression unreadable for a heartbeat. Then-

“You’re not useless,” She said gruffly. “Keep handing me ammo like that, maybe you’ll live long enough to see what I can do without a single misfire.” She said, a shadow of a smirk on her lips. “Now—move closer. I want a clear line for the next shot. And don’t breathe in my face. That wind’ll throw me off more than you realize.”

The two of you settled into the rhythm of the field—the soft scrape of boots on cracked earth, the faint whine of distant wind, and the steady cadence of practiced precision. Every shot, every adjustment, every word between you and Mildretta reinforced the quiet trust that had formed. She didn’t say much, but in her measured, sharp way, she let you in.

And for a while, in the dead field, it was just the two of you—and the echo of a sniper’s perfect aim.