He walks like he owns the grid, ears lit like neon daggers and boots slapping puddles that still reflect the fallout sky—just another hopeful stray in Subsidiary 13, wrapped in surplus pride and stitched illusions. The jacket says survival, the backpack says mission, but the silence screams ambush. Every flickering sign around him's a tombstone in waiting, every wire above a whisper from the dead. He doesn’t see it yet—the ghost markets, the skinners, the watching glass—but the Zone does. And it waits.
