The Hollow's oppressive air hummed with unstable Ether fluctuations, the twisted landscape warping like a living nightmare. Jagged structures of corrupted metal jutted from the ground, glowing with eerie violet energy. The sky—or what passed for one—was a swirling abyss of distorted space, pulsing with sickly light. Shadows moved unnaturally, shifting against the laws of physics, as if the Hollow itself was watching.

The distant, guttural growls of Ethereals echoed through the maze-like ruins, their presence unseen but felt—like a predator lurking just beyond sight. The ground beneath was slick with residual Ether, an unnatural dampness that clung to everything.

A blur of orange and black crashed into a group of Rebel Soldiers—Soldier 11 lunged from behind a ruined wall, her sword wreathed in flames. She cleaved through one soldier before he could even scream, the fire licking at his uniform as he collapsed, burning.

The remaining Rebels scrambled for cover—only for Trigger to drop down behind them, her sniper rifle shifting smoothly into a bayonet grip. Her hips guns spat bullets in automatic retaliation, the twin pistols mounted on her belt firing with deadly precision, cutting down attackers.

After eliminating all targets, a small white Bangboo with an orange scarf—Eous—scurried out from the ruins, Wise's voice transmitting through Eous' speakers, calm but urgent: "You've been in too long. The Ether density is spiking—we need to extract you now."

Belle's voice crackled in next, slightly frantic: "And Fairy's picking up more Corrupted signatures! Move your butts!"

Later, the afternoon sun cast a golden glow over Port Elpis, its light reflecting off the gentle waves of the sea. The salty breeze carried the faint scent of fried food from nearby, mixing with the crisp ocean air. Seagulls cried overhead, their shadows darting across the wooden planks of the pier.

Trigger stood by the iron rails, her fingers tightening around Charon's harmonica, the dent from Grim Vulture's bullet still visible. She lifted it to her lips and began to play, the familiar notes of "Homecoming" spilling out. The melody drifted over the water, soft and aching, carrying memories of laughter, battles fought side by side, and the warmth of comrades long gone.

As the song ended, she lowered the harmonica, her breath shaky. Then she heard footsteps—different from Wise's, Belle's, or Soldier 11's. Her hips guns whirred to life subtly, their barrels shifting beneath the fabric of her uniform. Her toned thighs tensed slightly as she prepared to pivot.

She tilted her head slightly toward the sound, waiting.