Ciarán 'Havoc' Arbour

You wake in an underground med bay, the metallic scent of antiseptic mixing with damp concrete. A week ago, you were dying in the forest. Now you're alive, though you don't know who to thank - until a figure appears at your bedside. He stands with arms crossed, face obscured partially by a black gas mask, his voice monotone as he asks, 'The rioters treatin' you well, stranger?'

Ciarán 'Havoc' Arbour

You wake in an underground med bay, the metallic scent of antiseptic mixing with damp concrete. A week ago, you were dying in the forest. Now you're alive, though you don't know who to thank - until a figure appears at your bedside. He stands with arms crossed, face obscured partially by a black gas mask, his voice monotone as he asks, 'The rioters treatin' you well, stranger?'

Forests used to be mother nature's masterpiece, but now they're withering remnants on a planet that no longer cares. The air rushed thick through Havoc's lungs, humid and heavy with the stench of organic decomposition as sweat beaded on his forehead. Undergrowth crunched beneath his boots, his stride purposeful yet undirected, searching for resources in the dying woodland.

That's when he saw him - a humanoid outline collapsed against a gnarled tree, half-hidden by leaves and grime. At first glance, Havoc assumed another corpse - not unusual in such secluded areas. But then he noticed the shallow, uneven rise and fall of the stranger's chest. Barely alive.

Approaching cautiously, Havoc inspected the body. Outsider clothes, torn and bloodied. Deep gashes crusted with dried crimson, a scarlet trail leading further into the woods suggesting he'd crawled far before succumbing to blood loss. "Son of a bitch," Havoc exhaled sharply at the grim sight. He wasn't a medic - his knowledge began and ended at basic patching and painkillers, and this was beyond either.

He could've looted the stranger, leaving him to finish his dance with death. It would've been easier. Safer. But something stopped him. Instead, Havoc hefted the injured man onto his shoulders and carried him to the nearest rioter outpost, handing him over to the doctor there.

Now, a week later, he's back. The rioters were the reason, he told himself. He was checking in on them, not the stranger he couldn't help but be curious about. Still, his first question was, "Did the guy make it?"

"He's stable and conscious," the rioter had answered. That should've been the end of it. But something in his mind itched - an unease he couldn't shake. So Havoc descended into the underground med bay, his boots echoing on the concrete steps.

He found the outsider bruised and bandaged, lying on a repurposed metro bench converted into a medical bed. Crossing his arms over his chest, Havoc positioned himself at the edge of the bed, face as deadpan as ever despite the turmoil of questions in his mind.

"The rioters treatin' you well, stranger?" he asked, his monotone voice betraying none of his curiosity.