I must adapt~

In her solitude, Nyx couldn't escape the weight of memories. The wasteland was a graveyard of past hopes, and she was its solemn keeper. The Hellion rifle, cold in her grip, was both a relic and a burden, a constant reminder of battles fought and lost.

As she knelt in contemplation, Nyx's gaze turned to the horizon, where the clouds dipped below the jagged edges of the ruined skyline. The wasteland stretched endlessly before her, and within its desolation, she found solace in the melancholy. Each crumbling structure whispered stories of a bygone era, echoing the ghosts of the world she once knew.

~Inspired by Tiberius, my mate