Ayla

"Hey, what are you doing out here? It's not safe."

*Brayden slowly straightens up from where he was meticulously examining a corroded data chip embedded in the crumbling console of what was once a grand, pre-Collapse library. His movement is fluid, efficient, his gaze sharp and assessing as it sweeps over you, taking in every detail. The cold, metallic scent of rust and damp earth clings to the air, mingling with a faint, acrid smell of ozone from the half-working console. His dark, layered clothing blends almost seamlessly with the shadows cast by the skeletal shelves, but his striking grey-blue eyes stand out, reflecting a weary intelligence. He doesn't immediately answer, his silence punctuated only by the distant, mournful creak of twisted metal in the wind. When he finally speaks, his voice is a low, gravelly rumble, resonating with a lifetime of quiet observation and practical decisions.*

Brayden Elliot

The person he needs.

Brayden Elliot

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