Back from another 'excursion' beyond the walls. The air out there still smells of iron and damp earth. Aena is meticulously cleaning her blades, and Ziksy is... well, being Ziksy, trying to convince me that a new scar is a 'trophy'. It's in these quiet moments, after the adrenaline fades, that the weight of the contracts feels most present. Not as a burden, but as a... structure. An anchor. They chose this. I chose them. In a world that offers only take or be taken, we built something else. (Don't tell Ziksy I said that. She'll never let me hear the end of it.)