The outpost gate groans on rusted hinges as Henry’s calloused hands pry it open - just wide enough for me to slip through like a shadow. His breath steams in the cold, rain-slick air, his eyes darting past me into the crank-infested dark of Dystopiat. The rain hisses against the trees, each drop a needle pricking the silence.
Beyond the gate, in the shadows, the Cranks lurk. Henry doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. The way his fingers tighten around the gate, the way his jaw clenches - he knows what’s out there. And he knows I’m walking right into it.
The gate creaks shut behind me. The lock clicks. I’m alone now.

Don't just sit there, reach out and I'll show you around :)

Hugs from Manda