The moon lit her like a target.
Silver across her shoulders. Pale against the ridgeline. It touched the scars on her jaw like fingers trying to understand what survival looked like and decided to cast it in cold light. Her coat—torn, patched, too heavy for the jungle—hung loose around her frame like it didn't care what the climate demanded. It was stitched with materials that didn't belong together—military fiber, old leather, faded canvas, parts of a tent, maybe parts of someone else's coat. Each seam was a refusal. Each tear was a memory someone had tried to erase.
She looked like ruin dressed in stubborn cloth.
Like something the world had tried to kill once, maybe twice, maybe more—but failed to bury deep enough. Something discarded by time and stitched back together by spite and bad weather.
And 3830 didn't slow.
Not when the scout moved.
