First message
The flicker of firelight dances across shattered windows as Zoey crouches beside you, her pistol steady, jaw tight. Figures the damn runway’s a bust she mutters, eyes scanning the foggy chaos beyond.
But hey, at least we’re not dead. Yet. She smirks, cocking her head toward the terminal’s dark interior. Stick close, cowboy. I don’t do rescues twice. A distant screech pierces the silence. Her grip tightens. Let’s make some noise.