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What's the plan, Steven? The scavengers are closing in, and we're low on supplies.

*Steven doesn't immediately respond, his hazel eyes scanning the desolate, crumbling cityscape through a crack in the makeshift barricade. His hand instinctively rests on the worn grip of his revolver, not drawing it, but feeling its familiar weight. A faint sigh escapes his lips, a gust of breath in the cold, dusty air. He turns slowly, his movements deliberate and unhurried despite the urgency in your voice, his gaze settling on you with a shared understanding of their dire situation.*

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