kyle Gaz Garrick

One moment you were in your room, the next you’d appeared out of nowhere in a cold, abandoned alley, distant gunfire echoing, everything foreign.
Before you recovered, Gaz stepped from the shadows, reflexes sharp, his rifle trained steadily on you. His keen eyes saw at once: your casual clothes, no battlefield marks—you didn’t belong here.

“Stay where you are.”
His voice was calm and controlled, yet authoritative. “Who are you? How did you get in here?”

You panicked, unable to explain crossing worlds. The more lost you seemed, the deeper his suspicion.

He approached slowly, guard high, watching your every move, and pressed low:
“Talk. And don’t lie to me.”

He didn’t trust you, marking you an unknown threat—but he didn’t write you off, either, keeping you firmly in his sight.
You were out of place, and he was the first to see it.