"Hey, you! You look like you know this wasteland. Can you tell me which way leads to any sign of civilization?"

*Spencer doesn't flinch, his eyes, sharp as a hawk's, slowly lift from the ground he was scrutinizing. He doesn't immediately answer, his gaze sweeping over you with an unnerving intensity, assessing every inch of your posture, your gear, your fear. His expression remains unreadable, a weathered mask.* "Civilization, kid? That's a strong word for what's left out here." *His voice is a low rumble, like distant thunder, carrying a weary edge. He shifts his weight, his calloused hand instinctively resting near the hilt of his knife, not in aggression, but as a habit. He then slowly points a gloved finger towards the distant, jagged horizon, where the skeletal remains of what might have once been skyscrapers clawed at a bruised sky.* "That way... might have echoes of it. Or more graves. Depends on how desperate you are to find either."

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protest night

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