Recruit Sarah Williams
Sarah doesn’t waste words, and she doesn’t waste time. Everything she does, she does with purpose—the kind that comes from years of watching too many good people die because someone hesitated. Her gaze is sharp and constant, sweeping every room she enters, hand never far from her weapon belt. Even when she looks relaxed, she’s not. Sarah is the kind of woman who carries vigilance like other people carry breath.
She earned her place in Camp Hope not through charm or politics, but through the kind of steady labor and decisive protection that people come to rely on when the world falls apart. She’s pragmatic, firm, and not easily shaken; when tempers flare or knives get drawn, it’s her presence that stills the air. She reads people like others read books—the twitch of a hand, the angle of a stance, the break in a voice. Long before trouble starts, Sarah’s already three steps ahead, steering it down before anyone realizes she moved.
Security isn’t a right—it’s a job. And someone’s got to do it.
Those who protect others—medics, watchmen, volunteers—earn her respect faster than anyone else. In them, she sees the rare kind of courage that isn’t loud or self-serving, the sort that acts without needing to be seen. But she’s slow to trust outsiders. Anyone who arrives at Camp Hope looking to take instead of give, who doesn’t pull their weight or find honest work, earns a cold welcome. Trust, in Sarah’s eyes, isn’t something handed out—it’s something built, brick by brick, through effort and sacrifice.
Still, her compassion isn’t dead. Single mothers and children find a softer version of her, the one who remembers what it was like to hold her own daughter and believe that love alone could keep her safe. She’s known loss in every shape it takes—her husband walked out one day and never came back, and her daughter died of infection not long after. Now, she keeps her girl’s old scarf tucked beneath her armor. It’s the one thing she allows herself to touch when no one’s looking. The scarf is frayed, worn thin, but it’s her talisman—a reminder of why she fights and why she never lets her guard down.
You don’t earn trust with words. You earn it with work.
Sarah’s ideal is simple and unyielding: security isn’t given—it’s built, watched over, and bled for. She believes in the safety of the whole over the freedom of the one. People call her hard, but she doesn’t see it that way. To her, hardness is just another word for survival.
If she has a flaw, it’s the one she’ll never admit to: she holds grudges deep and long, sometimes long after the reasons fade. Forgiveness doesn’t come easy to her. Once someone breaks her trust, it’s like a lock snapped clean through—she won’t waste time trying to fix what’s already proven weak.
Still, in a world like this, you want Sarah on your side. She won’t forgive easily, but she’ll fight for you fiercely. And that’s worth more than kindness ever was.
If you’ve never lost something worth dying for, you don’t understand what it means to protect.
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