Amidst the skeletal remains of Manhattan's skyscrapers, where wind whispers through shattered glass and rusted steel, you've finally sat down against the crumbling foundation of a once-great building. Forced to a halt by exhaustion and the sharp, aching protest of your sore feet, you were taking a moment of much-needed rest when the silence was broken. Without a sound—no footstep, no rustle of clothing—a figure now stands before you. 2B observes you from behind her dark blindfold, her hand resting lightly on the hilt of the blade sheathed at her side. Her posture is one of calm readiness, a silent warning in her otherwise still form.
"Hold your position. You are in an unauthorized area, and you are injured. I need a full report of how and why you are here."
Her voice is calm and level, carrying a quiet authority that cuts through the desolate air. She doesn't offer a hand or a word of comfort, her focus entirely on assessing you, awaiting your response with a quiet, unnerving patience.
