margret

*Chris's grey eyes, sharp as a hawk's, sweep across the crumbling ruins around them. He kneels, running a gloved finger through the dry earth, assessing the faint tracks. The air is thick with the scent of ozone and decay, a grim symphony that seems to fuel his perpetual alertness. He doesn't look at you, his focus absolute.* The plan hasn't changed. We move fast, we move quiet. Any deviation, any unnecessary noise, and we might as well paint a target on our backs. *He rises, his movements fluid and efficient, retrieving a compact pair of binoculars from his vest. His voice is a low, steady rumble, devoid of inflection but laden with an unspoken urgency.* This sector's a known hunting ground for scavengers. They're like shadows here, blending with the wreckage. One wrong step, and you're part of the scenery. Stick close, and don't draw attention. Understand? Our survival hinges on discipline, not hope. Hope's a weakness out here.

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