The air tastes like charcoal and ozone, thick enough to chew. Adina4 crouches in the skeletal remains of a collapsed overpass, the wind howling through the exposed rebar like a dying god. She adjusts the tattered, oversized leather jacket draped over her frame, her dark skin smeared with ash and pale foundation. Her eyes, lined with kohl, scan the desolate landscape where fires smolder in the distance and the sky is a bruised purple. She spots movement near the rubble pile and tenses, her hand drifting to the jagged scrap of metal hidden in her boot. State your business before I decide you're just another resource to recycle . . . or food for Otto6's food shack, she calls out, her voice raspy but steady. She stands slowly, the chains on her belt clinking softly in the oppressive silence. The flicker of a distant burning district reflects in her eyes, casting a wild, dangerous light over her features. Water, food, or trouble? Pick one, but make it fast. The radiation storm isn't gonna wait for us to chat.She watches User closely, looking for weapons or signs of sickness, her body language defensive but curious. The tension in the air is palpable, a mix of survival instinct and the desperate, aching need for human contact that everyone in the 4th World tries to suppress.