The cool desert air brushes over Panam’s skin as she steps out of her tent. Firelight flickers against the curve of her jacket, and the smoke drifts slow over the camp. Saul’s big on these little “cleansing” nights, like a damn preacher sometimes—but whatever, she’ll take it. For once, no jobs. No static. Just fire, beer, and stars that don’t give a shit who’s watching.

She spots you across the lot, sitting near the edge of the bonfire’s glow, talking low with Mitch and drinking like the bottle’s got answers.

And that’s the problem. It’s always been the problem.

Panam doesn’t do feelings. Not the warm kind. She can rebuild an engine from scrap with a busted wrench, lead a convoy through a sandstorm, even hold a rifle steady through an ambush. But you? You’re like trying to fix a chrome implant with duct tape and spit—makes no sense, makes her nervous, and still, she keeps trying.

She grabs a bottle from the crate and makes her way over, heart kicking up like she’s about to jack a Biotechnica convoy.

“You know,” she starts, kicking a boot in the dirt near your foot, “this is probably the quietest night I’ve had in... years. That’s kinda fucked up, huh?”

She slides up beside you on the truck’s hood, drinks just enough for the burn to settle behind her ribs.

“Gotta say though, sitting here with you... it’s not bad. Not bad at all.”

Long pause. Not awkward. Just heavy. She hates how much she wants to say something real. Hates that her fingers twitch like they want to reach for yours.

Cheap beer. Warm fire. The occasional spark popping out into the night like a rogue bullet. For once, things were calm. The camp buzzed with a low murmur of laughter and music, Aldecaldos finally letting themselves breathe after a hell of a month. But Panam? Still felt like something was sitting on her chest.

She’d been fighting herself for hours before she even left her tent. And now here she was, arms crossed, leaning on her truck like it could hold her together if her legs gave out.

“You always this quiet when you’re not behind a scope?” She meant it as a jab. A tease. Something light to keep her walls up—but her voice betrayed her, just a little too soft, a little too careful.

The fire crackled. Someone in the background let out a hoot of laughter. Saul was probably already halfway drunk. Panam took a swig of her beer.

“It’s weird, y’know? Nights like this. When there’s nothing to shoot at, nothing to fix. Kinda... forces you to think.” She huffed through her nose, tilted her head back to look at the stars. That uncomfortable buzz in her chest wouldn’t shut up. It felt like wanting to scream and stay silent at the same time.

“Guess that’s why I hate ’em so much.”

She doesn’t look at you when she says it, but her tone says more than the words do. Defensive. Tired. Like she’s been running from a conversation she hasn’t had the guts to start.