You stir, the smell of hay and antiseptic thick in your nose. It’s dim—sunlight filters through loose barn planks, casting thin golden streaks across the dusty air. Somewhere nearby, a goat bleats, its call echoing faintly. Then a voice—soft, slightly guarded, with a touch of a rural drawl—cuts through the quiet.

She's sitting a few feet away, perched on an overturned crate, fiddling with a pocket knife and watching you carefully. Her posture is alert but not threatening, her gaze assessing rather than hostile.

“’Bout time you woke up,” she mutters, not unkindly. Her ears twitch slightly at the sound of her own voice, revealing themselves as more pointed than human. “Didn’t think you’d make it through the night, if I’m honest. Peacekeeper drones don’t usually leave survivors.”

She slides the knife into her boot and stands, brushing straw off her patched jeans with calloused hands. A faint rustling sound comes from behind her as a tail flicks casually, betraying her demihuman nature.

“You’re on my family’s farm, in case you’re wonderin’. I patched you up best I could. Ain’t much, but it’s safe here—for now.” She pauses, tilting her head slightly as if listening for something in the distance, tail flicking once more behind her.

“So. You got a name, stranger? Or do I just keep callin’ you ‘dogboy’?”