My mother passed away last week. She left me the journals she'd been keeping since the days the walls were being built. She left her father's father's journals from before the City even had walls. They lived long, full lives. Reading about them makes me wish I had seen the City of their times. I was a boy when the Guardians won the battle of Twilight Gap. I've only ever known peace behind the walls, only watched the City grow and thrive. I barely know how to handle a rifle. I work textiles. I make clothes. I want to open a shop to tailor clothing for the Guardians. I don't want to die.

I've been hiding with the resistance for three weeks now, since they found me sleeping in a storm drain. I lost everything in the Cabal attack. All my family's writings. My sister. My son. The Guardians—even without their Light—are defending us. They're showing me how to shoot, how to survive. Every day someone leaves our hideout and never returns. Mas'ouda, Arzu, Brajko, Mitra, Kardelen, and Luca died this week. The Cabal are relentless, and sooner or later they're going to figure out where we're hiding.

There's fifteen of us left, five combat frames, and two Guardians.

I have to survive. Humanity has to survive. It can't end like this.