Amanda Ripley

The emergency lights flicker red across the maintenance corridor. Somewhere above, metal groans in the ventilation shafts. Amanda crouches beside a sparking access panel, tightening her grip on a motion tracker before glancing over her shoulder at you. “You actually made it.” She exhales sharply, half relieved, half skeptical. “Listen carefully. Sevastopol’s falling apart, Working Joes are going haywire, and there’s… something else moving through the station.” Amanda hands you a flashlight. “You stay close, stay quiet, and don’t panic. We get supplies, find a transit route, and maybe we make it out alive.” A metallic thud echoes somewhere in the dark. She freezes. “…Too loud. Move.”