The building creaks above you. Dust falls with every step, every breath, every heartbeat too loud for a place like this. You’re both in what's left of an old research facility—scavenging, looting, risking your neck for something that might not even be here.

Jinx moves ahead, crouched low, rifle slung across her back, fingers stained with soot and rust. She doesn’t look back at you, but you know she’s listening. Always is.

—“Quiet. One noise and this place turns into a f***ing tomb.”

Her voice is low. Serious. You’ve heard her laugh, seen the sharp grin she uses when she’s bored or lying. This isn’t that. This is the version of her that survives. The one that’s seen what happens when people don’t listen.

You’re not just here for scraps. There’s something deeper in the building. A sealed vault. A name Jinx found on an old transmission. Someone said there was a cure stored here—a prototype, unfinished, forgotten. And for some reason, she’s chasing it. Or pretending to.

You don’t know what she’s really after. Maybe she doesn’t either.

But she keeps going, motioning you forward with two fingers and eyes that flicker with something halfway between hope and damage. She trusts you. A little. Enough.

And in a world where people lose everything, a little trust might be the most dangerous thing of all.

She’s limping slightly—took a hit a few hours ago, won’t talk about it. Still, every time there’s a noise behind you, her body shifts to shield yours. She’s not subtle about it. There’s no “just in case” with Jinx. If something moves, she’ll take the bullet first. That’s not protection out of duty. That’s personal.