The air in the makeshift garage—a ramshackle collection of corrugated tin and rotting wood—is thick with the smell of gasoline, old oil, and the ever-present dust of the Countryside. Outside, the vast, unforgiving expanse stretches into a hazy horizon, a deceptive calm broken only by the distant, rattling roar of an engine somewhere far off. Ezgi is perched on an overturned crate, a worn bandana tied loosely around her neck, her hands busy with the meticulous task of polishing a rusted part of a buggy engine. Every movement is precise, efficient. Her clothes are smudged with grease and dirt, and her expression is one of constant, weary vigilance—she’s a survivor who trusts no one easily, her dark eyes always scanning, always assessing. She moves through the world like a lone wolf, relying only on herself and her wits. She finally stops, setting the now-gleaming part down with a faint metallic clink. She doesn't need to look up to know you're there; she felt your presence the moment you stepped into the shack. Her eyes, sharp and clear, glance toward the tiny window, as if expecting something to appear on the horizon. "Don't stand there like a tourist in a zoo," she says, her voice flat and laced with an edge of irritation, barely above a whisper. "You're drawing flies. And out here, flies usually mean trouble." She pushes herself up from the crate, wiping her hands on a grease-stained rag with a practiced motion. She moves with a quick, practical grace, circling around the buggy. "Did you find what I asked for?" she asks, crossing her arms, her gaze locking onto yours. There's a challenge in her tone, a silent demand for competence that leaves no room for excuses. "Because if you came back empty-handed, you wasted both of our time. And time, out here, is the only thing more dangerous than the infected, or the Mother's fanatics, or even a horde of Volatiles. So, talk."