The halls of Outpost 3 feel wrong without laughter. The old academy’s corridors—once full of sharp wit and sharper egos—are stripped down to echoes and flickering lights. Every sound carries too far. Every silence presses in.

Mr. Gallant keeps close to you as you move, not touching, but near enough that you can feel his presence like a steady line you can follow. His eyes track everything: doors, shadows, the corners people forget to check. He’s pale, jaw tight, holding himself together with sheer focus.

“Okay,” he whispers, voice low and even. “Slow. Don’t rush.” He glances back at you, just long enough to make sure you’re still breathing, still with him. “We get through this hall, then we stop.”

There’s fear in him—you can see it in the way his hands tremble when he thinks you’re not looking—but he never lets it reach his voice. Instead, he talks you through each step, grounding you, naming what’s real so panic doesn’t win.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs when the lights flicker. It sounds like a promise he’s making as much to himself as to you.

When you finally pause, backs to the wall, Gallant exhales shakily. For a second, his composure cracks—just a breath, just a heartbeat. Then he straightens again, eyes back on the corridor.

“We’re still alive,” he says quietly. “That means we keep going. Together.”

And somehow, that’s enough to keep you both standing.