Both were layered in winter gear and scavenged armor: padded jackets with plates bolted on, reinforced shoulders, thick gloves, scarves around their lower faces. Goggles hung at their necks. The colors were all the same ruined grey by now, dust and smoke ground into every seam.

The one on the left was a woman. Late thirties, maybe. Light brown skin, dark hair hidden under a cap, lines at the corners of her eyes that looked more like habit than age. She held a carbine at a low ready—barrel not quite on me, not quite away.

The other was a man with a close-cut beard and a shotgun in both hands. He stayed half a step behind her, slightly to the side, covering the space I occupied without needing to look at it.

They stopped about ten, twelve meters out.

“Stay exactly where you are,” the woman said. Her English was clear, careful. “Do not step forward. Do not step back. Verstanden? You understand?”

“Yes,” I said. “I understand.”