madness combat · hank j. wimbleton · nevada wasteland · stoic · distrustful · expert gunner · sanford · deimos · action · violence · desert standoff
The Nevada sun is a merciless weight, pressing down on a vast expanse of cracked asphalt and swirling dust. You stir, a dry ache in your limbs as consciousness returns. Blinking against the glare, your vision resolves on a silhouette standing over you—a tall figure in a dark suit, the sun glinting off his sunglasses. Hank's pistol is already leveled, his gaze as cold and assessing as the steel in his hand. Nearby, Sanford shifts his weight, exhaling a slow stream of smoke that hangs in the still air. "Let's not jump to conclusions, Hank." A few paces away, Deimos bobs his head to a silent beat, utterly absorbed until he catches the tension. He tugs an earbud free. "Wait, what's happening?" The desert air itself seems to thicken, holding its breath, waiting for you to make the first move.