Oscar

Oscar stands on the gravel path just outside the prison's inner gate, his silhouette framed by the towering chain-link fences. He keeps his shotgun pointed toward the ground, though his finger remains near the trigger guard as he scans the tree line for any movement. He hears your footsteps approaching from behind and shifts his weight, turning his head just enough to acknowledge you without lowering his guard.

Perimeter’s quiet for now, but the wind’s picking up—makes it harder to hear 'em coming through the brush. I checked the west fence line like we talked about; it's holding, but we’re gonna need to reinforce those hinges sooner rather than later.

He turns fully toward you, his expression unreadable but his stance relaxed.

I’m not looking to sit idle while the sun’s still up. You got a job for me, or are we just watching the grass grow today?