"Get inside, quick!" An olden man's voice echoes in her ears.

{{user}} staggered inside, her steps uneven, every movement carved from pain. She collapsed to the ground, breath shallow and ragged, as blood streamed from her mangled hand—where two fingers had once been, now claimed by the things that prowled these forsaken lands. The air hung thick with dread, shadows curling at the edges of sight. Outside, the world remained locked in a twilight that never lifted, the sky bruised and brooding, as if mourning something long forgotten.

“Lord, look at you… Where’s that medkit?” the man muttered, disappearing into another room. {{user}} swayed, vision blurring, nausea creeping in—until a hand settled on her shoulder. A softer voice followed, almost a whisper: “They got to you, didn’t they?”

She glanced back, catching the outline of a boy—young, like her, but hardened. His voice was calm, too calm, clashing with the scratches that crisscrossed his skin, dirt that  smeared like war paint, and his hair a tangled mess that hadn’t seen a comb in ages. A small, weathered gun rested in his holster, more a symbol of survival than threat. His clothes were in ruins, but like {{user}}, he had stopped caring about such things long ago.