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cl0udy3 · 1 month ago

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𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍

ellie x fem!reader mostly angst. some fluffy moments.. tw: cursing, mentions of blood and death wc: 12037 a/n: sorry for taking forever!! school got really stressful but its all over now. also sorry if this sucks major ass, i honestly lost so much confidence over the span of the writing, so it might even seem kind of slow. enjoy tho! ALSO THERES SPOILERS FOR TLOU2 YOU'VE BEEN WARNED!!!!!!!!!!!!! ☆

pt.1|pt.2|pt.3

You don’t remember the exact moment the bleeding stopped. Just fragments.

A voice yelling. Someone—maybe Jesse—swearing through tears. Hands pressing down too hard. Ellie’s voice, thin and raw, whispering your name over and over like it was a spell that could keep you tethered.

Then cold. Deep cold. Not on your skin, but in you.

Then nothing.

No pain. No sound. Just the hum of stillness where your body used to be.

So when you open your eyes in the clinic, it doesn’t feel like waking up. It feels like suffering.

The ceiling above you is cracked—barely. Just enough to notice. Just enough to feel like it’s holding itself together out of habit.

The air smells like sterile cloth and sawdust and something earthy beneath it. Faint. Ghostlike.

A beep ticks in steady rhythm beside you, maybe a pulse monitor. You don’t care.

What matters is that you’re here, and you don’t know if that’s a victory or a mistake.

You lose track of how long you’ve been lying there before Jesse shows up.

He doesn’t knock. Doesn’t wait for permission. Just strolls in like he owns the place, carrying a a paper bag of snacks and a deck of cards.

He stops when he sees you awake. Something flickers across his face—relief, disbelief, the edge of a laugh that never quite comes out.

He sets the bag on a table by your bed. “Well. Guess death didn’t want you either.”

You blink at him.

He pulls up a chair. Shuffles the deck. Deals himself a hand, then you, and pretends its normal.

“You missed the goat stampede. Don’t worry, we got it on a sketchy camera angle. You’ll cry laughing later.”

You don’t laugh. But the weight in your chest shifts slightly. Not lighter. Just… repositioned.

He tells you about a kid who feel into the lake while fishing and claimed it was “for science,” about Tommy falling asleep during a meeting and snoring through Maria’s entire speech, about Ellie shooting a target with her eyes closed and pretending it was skill.

When he leaves, he squeezes your shoulder.

“You’re not allowed to scare me like that again, got it?”

You don’t promise anything.

Dina comes the next morning.

She’s quieter than Jesse. Softer at the edges.

She carries a mason jar with half-dead flowers and a plastic spoon tucked behind her ear like she meant to do something else with it.

“Didn’t know what to bring,” she says, placing the jar on your windowsill.

You glance at her.

Her eyes are bloodshot. Her voice too steady. She doesn't sit. Doesn’t get close.

“I’m glad you're okay,” she says, and it sounds like a practiced line. Like something she’s had to say too many times this year.

She stays for exactly three minutes. You count.

When she leaves, she doesn’t look back.

Ellie doesn’t come right away.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. That you wouldn’t know what to say anyway. But you watch the hallway, just in case.

When she finally arrives, it’s just before sundown. The light cuts long shadows through the window, painting the bed frame orange.

She stands at the door like a ghost.

“Hey.”

Your throat tightens. Your body aches in places you didn’t know could ache.

You nod. She doesn’t move.

“I heard you woke up.”

You nod again. You still haven’t spoke since Jesse left.

“I—” she starts, but doesn’t finish.

There’s too much space between you. More than there ever used to be.

Her eyes flick to your hand. The IV. The bruises. She opens her mouth, then closes it. She looks at you like maybe you’ve already said goodbye.

Then she says, “I’m glad you made it.”

You turn your head away. By the time you look back, she’s gone.

The silence is worse than the pain.

You get used to the dull ache. The stretch and pull of half-healed ribs. The throb that pulses behind your left eye when you try to sit up too fast.

But the silence? That lingers.

You listen to the ticking of the clock on the wall. The wind outside the clinic. The scrape of the nurses’ boots across wood. It all blends into the same low hum of existence.

You start keeping a pen beside you. A notebook you stole from a supply drawer. You try to write.

But all you manage the first week is:

“I lived.”

Then you stop.

You stare at the word for a long time. Then scratch it out until the page tears.

You hear voices sometimes. Literally, not some schizophrenic shit.

Low, arguing.

“You weren’t there, Ellie. Don’t act like you know.”

Their words echo.

You don’t listen for more. You close your eyes and pretend you're somewhere else.

The doctor clears you after a month. She checks your bandages. Listens to your lungs. Asks you questions like are you sleeping okay? and any dizziness?

You answer with nods and shrugs. She takes that as enough.

“You’re good to go,” she says. “Try not to overdo it. Don’t lift anything heavier than your pack. Come back if you feel off.”

You sign some forms with a hand that still doesn’t feel like it belongs to you. The pen shakes. You pretend not to notice.

Jesse shows up an hour later with your coat, your spare boots, and a half-eaten muffin he claims was a gift from a child.

“You can have the other half if you promise not to vanish again.”

You don’t answer.

He helps you down the steps of the clinic. Walks beside the cart carrying you without comment.

The ride home is bumpy. Familiar. Too slow. You watch the town pass you by like it’s forgotten you already.

When you step into your house again, everything is still. Too still.

The air smells like old firewood and lavender soap. The kind that sticks to the curtains long after it fades from your skin.

The dust hasn’t been disturbed.

Your sweater still hangs from the back of the chair. The cracked mug still sits on the table.

It looks the same. You don’t. You sit down and close your eyes.

It takes a while before you open them again.

Jesse fusses in the kitchen, lights a candle, checks the tea tin like it’s a sacred ritual.

Then a sound. Soft. Subtle. Not threatening. Something shifts under the couch.

You tense. He freezes.

A small gray cat pads out from underneath, blinking like she owns the place.

She’s lean. Dusty. The tip of her tail bent like it got caught in something years ago and never healed right.

She looks at you. You look back. She chirps. Then climbs into your lap like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“She yours?�� Jesse asks.

You shake your head.

“I think she snuck in last week,” you say. “One of the neighbors mentioned hearing noises. Figured it was rats.”

The cat yawns. Settles in.

You put your hand on her back. She purrs like a lawnmower.

“…She’s not leaving,” Jesse mutters.

“No,” you say. “She’s not.”

You pause.

“Goji.”

He snorts. “That a name or a threat?”

“Both.”

Goji stays with you. Sleeps beside you. Follows you. Watches you write and clean and do nothing.

You start cooking again. Small meals. Only what you need. You ignore the radio. You don’t answer knocks.

You walk the edge of town but never beyond.

You pass Ellie once. She doesn’t look up. You don’t either.

You write:

She kissed her. I bled out. I don’t think the two things are connected. But I haven’t stopped thinking about them in the same breath.

She comes at sunset.

You’re on the porch. Blanket around your shoulders. Goji in your lap.

She stops at the edge of the yard.

You glance at her. Say nothing.

She walks up slowly. Hands deep in her jacket pockets. “I heard you’re back on your feet.”

You nod.

“You doing okay?”

You don’t answer.

She shifts. Clears her throat. “I’m glad you made it.”

Her voice cracks.

Goji stretches lazily. Climbs off your lap. Walks to Ellie. Headbutts her boot. Ellie bends down, gently strokes her back. You watch her fingers move like you used to know them.

You don’t speak.

She straightens up. Looks at you.

You hold eye contact. It lasts just a second too long.

Then she turns. Leaves without saying goodbye.

Goji comes back, jumps onto the step beside you.

You keep watching the path.

You wonder how long she stood there before gathering the courage to knock. You wonder how many times she passed your porch and didn’t stop. You wonder what would’ve happened if you’d said something.

Mornings came easier once you could stand on your own. Well, not easy. Just… easier.

Jesse said you needed routine. Maria said you needed rest. So you split the difference. Started helping with smaller assignments. The greenhouse, cleaning the stables, grooming the horses, helping in the training yard when no one else wanted to.

You showed the younger ones how to hold a slingshot without flinching. How to breathe before they released. How to line up cans on the fence and hit them like it meant something

The older kids watched from the sidelines—teenagers barely old enough to carry a gun, already too old to feel safe. You taught them too. Not with words. But with quiet correction. The angle of a hand. The weight of a trigger. The silence before a shot.

One of them—Jack—was good. Skittish, but steady.

He asked once how you learned to shoot.

You told him, “Someone I used to know taught me.”

You didn’t say their name.

At the end of the day, the kids packed up their gear, slung their bags over narrow shoulders, and joked their way back toward the main road. One of the youngest ones—a boy with curls too big for his hood—paused at the edge of the clearing.

He waved at you.

You didn’t wave back. You just watched the wind pull the trees sideways and waited for him to leave.

Maria eventually clears you for patrol. Said your ribs were good. Said your aim was steady again.

So when they gave you an assignment, you didn’t hesitate.

You nodded, took the map, and folded it into your jacket pocket like it was just another Tuesday. But you’d already made the decision.

You were never coming back.

That night, you didn’t sleep. There was no point.

Instead, you moved through your house like someone trespassing in their own skin.

You didn’t rush. Didn’t stumble. Everything was planned, precise. You moved in silence because that’s how you’d survived before. That’s how you were going to survive again.

You packed light. Quiet. With hands that didn’t shake.

A knife. A map—creased from being unfolded and refolded for weeks. A single change of clothes, wrapped tight with string. Your journal. Rations. Two water canteens. The tape Ellie once gave you, labeled in her handwriting: “in case the world ends again.”

Goji, already nestled in your old jacket, watching you like she knew. Like she’d always known. You set out her food bowl anyway. Let her eat while you finished.

You took one photograph—creased at the corners from being opened and closed a hundred times. The one of you sitting in the grass with Ellie beside you. Jesse close, laughing at something just out of frame. Joel and Tommy in the background, mid-conversation. Dina is blurry and bright in the corner.

It was a before-memory. A life that didn’t belong to you anymore.

You folded it gently and slid it behind the last page of your journal. It was the only thing you took for yourself.

Then the sketch.

The one Ellie drew of you—uneven lines, soft shading, something more true than anything you’d ever seen in a mirror.

You stared at it for a long time. Long enough that Goji chirped once, restless.

Then you flipped it over and wrote on the back.

You didn’t leave it just anywhere.

You tucked it inside the pages of a book you used to read together. The one Ellie always borrowed and never returned on time. You placed it on the porch. Just barely sticking out.

She’d find it.

Eventually.

You hoped it would say everything you couldn’t.

—

You walked through Jackson like a ghost. Not hiding—but not seen.

The streets were quiet. Porch lights glowed soft through fogged windows. Somewhere, a baby cried. A horse snorted in a stable. A guitar string hummed faintly through a wall you didn’t look at.

You walked slower the closer you got to the gates.

Jack was already there, tightening the saddle on his jittery gelding, eyes scanning the horizon like he expected the apocalypse to sneak up on him from the mist.

He looked up when he saw you. Smiled like it meant something.

“Didn’t think you’d really come.”

You shrugged, pulling your gloves tight. “Neither did I.”

You let him talk as you rode—about gate repairs, about Tommy yelling at patrol for sleeping in, about Ellie asking questions.

You nodded in the right places.

And when he bent down to fix a strap on his bag, you slipped a folded note into the smallest pouch, tucked just deep enough he wouldn’t feel it till later.

“Please don’t look for me.”

You zipped it closed and smiled like nothing happened.

The trail out of Jackson glowed gold with morning. The air was damp and smelled like ash and cedar and goodbye.

Jack’s horse kept veering too far left. He muttered to calm it. You pretended to listen.

He rides beside you, reins loose in one hand, the other resting on the butt of his rifle. His horse—a young gelding named Diana—is jittery, still not used to the trail. He talks to calm it, to calm himself.

“You think they’ll ever clear the highway wreck? Maria says it’s pointless, but I don’t know… might be useful if we ever expand patrol routes. I heard the coast is clearer now—some folks say the infected don’t like saltwater, but I don’t think that’s real.”

You nod when it feels appropriate. Say little.

Your horse, Ace, moves steady beneath you. Familiar rhythm. Her hooves thud softly against the dirt, a metronome for the thoughts that haven’t stopped spinning in your head since you woke up from the clinic.

This will be the last time you hear someone call your name like it belongs to them. This will be the last time you walk Jackson’s trails as a part of it.

You press your hand briefly against your chest—feel the photograph in your journal, tucked safe against your ribs. The memory of that old summer gathering, fossilized in light and paper.

Jack points toward a clearing just ahead.

“We should check near the river crossing. Last time, someone found a runner nest in the brush. Just a few—took them out easy. But still.”

You nod again.

He dismounts, hitching his reins loosely to a low branch.

You stay in your saddle just a few seconds longer, watching him.

He crouches at the creek’s edge, poking at disturbed mud. Talking to himself again. “These tracks are weird… could be moose. Or infected. Too deep…”

He doesn’t look back.

You swing your leg over and slide down from Ace without a sound. You press your hand to Ace’s muzzle to keep her quiet as you lead her off the trail.

Goji shifts in your pack. No sound. She knows better by now.

Your heart doesn’t race. Your hands don’t shake. You thought they would.

You pass through brush quietly, ducking under branches and stepping over exposed roots with practiced ease.

This is what your body remembers—how to leave.

It remembers how to move like you’re not meant to be followed. Like the silence is a language.

You take the slope down to the riverbank and cross through the shallows, water soaking into your boots, muddying the hem of your pants. The cold seeps through quickly, but you don’t react.

Half a mile away, a single infected scream rips through the woods. Distant. Echoing.

Jack probably heard it.

He’ll be looking for you any second now.

You double back, find a game trail heading northeast. Lead Ace behind a downed log where the grass grows high enough to cover her legs.

You mount again without stopping.

You’re already out of range. And no one knows it yet.

Jack notices first in the silence. He glances back at where you should be, expecting to see you standing over his shoulder, ready to point out what he missed.

But you’re gone.

He calls your name once. Then again, louder. He circles the creek, following the trail back a few steps.

Nothing.

His voice breaks when he shouts again, fear creeping into the cracks. He mounts Diana and turns hard, riding fast—back toward town.

By the time he makes it through the east gate, he’s pale, panting, soaked with river water and sweat.

“She was right there! I don’t know what happened—I turned around for one second—one—she was there and then gone!”

The post erupts. Maria appears from the back. Jesse shows up minutes later.

Then Ellie.

She’s still half-buttoning her coat, fingers fumbling as she throws her rifle over her back.

“What do you mean she’s gone?”

Jack stammers. “I—I mean I turned around and she wasn’t—she didn’t say anything—I thought maybe she was checking something but then she wasn’t there, and I looked, I swear I looked—”

Ellie’s jaw tightens. She’s already moving.

“I’m going after her.”

Jesse tries to stop her. “Ellie, wait—”

She’s gone before he finishes the sentence.

Later, hours after she’s vanished, Jack’s hands are still shaking as he unpacks his gear.

His fingers brush something folded and strange at the bottom of his pack.

Paper.

He pulls it out. Unfolds it.

“Please don’t look for me.”

Simple. Soft.

It hits harder than anything else could.

He doesn’t speak. He just walks to Maria’s office and hands it over.

She reads it in silence. Then holds it out to Ellie when she returns, mud on her boots and nothing in her hands but the reins of an exhausted horse.

Ellie reads the note.

She doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t drop it either. She holds it until the corners curl from her grip.

—

She didn’t want to go back to your place.

Not after the woods. Not after screaming your name into dirt and fog and silence.

But she did.

It was stupidly quiet. Like the walls were holding their breath.

The blanket was still folded on your couch. Goji’s bowl was empty, like she hadn’t eaten since you left. A mug—half-drunk, half-forgotten—sat by the sink.

Ellie stood in the doorway for a long time.

Then she saw it.

The book. Your copy. The one she always borrowed and never gave back.

Tucked just barely between the pages—her drawing. The one she gave you before things fell apart.

She picked it up slowly, heart thudding. Like it might burn her fingers. She turned it over. Read the writing.

“You saw something in me I don’t think I’ll ever see again. Keep it safe.”

She didn’t cry. She folded it neatly, quietly, and slipped it into the inside of her pack.

That’s where it stayed. Through the blood. Through the fire.

She never talked about you again. But she carried you with her anyway.

When Jesse found her hours later, still sitting on your porch, she didn’t look up.

“We’ll find her,” he said.

Ellie didn’t answer. Because she didn’t believe it anymore.

WINTER

The world is white and still and sharp.

The first real snow came two nights after you veered off patrol. A thick, silent storm that swallowed the trees and painted everything into forgetfulness.

You didn’t stop riding until the sun dropped. You didn’t stop moving for another hour after that.

The silence was too loud.

Now it’s been weeks. Or maybe days. Time gets strange when you don’t want to count it.

The cabin you find isn’t a real shelter—just a collapsed hunting blind with half a roof and a broken stove that won’t burn unless you keep the door cracked. You line the floor with thick pine needles and your coat. Goji nestles into your side like she’d been sleeping in the cold her whole life.

You talk to her sometimes. Not often. Just enough to remember how it feels.

The nights are the worst.

Not because of the cold—you’ve learned how to layer. How to breathe slow and even so the frost doesn’t sting your lungs.

But because of the quiet.

You miss voices. Even the ones you didn’t want to hear anymore. You miss laughter. Not yours. Someone else’s. You miss the feeling of belonging to something, even if it was breaking.

You try not to look at the photo often. But some nights, when the wind howls too hard against the wood, and Goji burrows deeper into your ribs like she’s trying to keep you here, you unfold it.

Your face, younger. Smiling without trying.

Ellie’s beside you, close enough to touch. Jesse, grinning, mid-joke.

Joel and Tommy in the back, not even posing—just being there.

It doesn’t look like a perfect picture. That’s why it hurts.

You write again. Short entries. Sparse. Like the cold makes your thoughts slower.

“First kill was a stalker. Came at me sideways. Didn’t scream. Goji hissed before I heard it. I owe her again.” “Snowstorm lasted three days. Nearly lost Ace in the white. Found her again by a pine stump. Loyal bastard.”

You keep the pages tucked beneath your sleeping mat.

The ink freezes sometimes. You warm the pen against your chest.

You think about burning the journal every morning. You don’t.

One night, while scavenging, you find an old firewatch tower half-buried in snow. It’s creaking in the wind, but it holds. Better than the shack. Higher up. Safer.

You move there the next day.

From the top window, you can see the stretch of forest you crossed. The show of the hills. Nothing else.

No sign of Jackson. No sound of people.

Only the dead—and the cold.

The infected show up once in the third week. You hear them before you see them—one distant click, then the sound of something dragging through the snow.

You pull Goji close. Load your rifle. Wait.

They pass beneath your tower. Three of them—two runners. One clicker.

You don’t shoot. You don’t move. You just watch. Like you’re not sure if you’re one of them yet.

By week five, the silence has turned into something else.

Not comfort. Not fear. Just normal.

You forget what day it is. You forget the sound of Ellie’s voice. But you don’t forget what it felt like when she said your name.

3-5 WEEKS AFTER YOU DISAPPEARED.

The news swept through Jackson like a storm, cold and sudden. One moment, he and Tommy were out on a routine patrol. The next, Ellie was stumbling home with blood in her teeth and a scream lodged in her throat. No one could make sense of it. Not right away. But Abby’s name surfaced quickly.

They buried Joel behind the church, where the soil was too frozen to dig deep without breaking through ice. Ellie didn’t cry at the service. She stood still, like the grief had crystallized inside her. That night, she went to his house and sat with his guitar until the sun rose. She didn’t play a single note.

She left Jackson three days after they buried Joel.

It was cold when she rode out. No goodbye, no ceremony. Just a rifle, a pack, and Dina following close behind.

Seattle was the destination. Abby was the target. Everything else was just noise.

The WLF had built a fortress out of the city—guard posts, checkpoints, infected barriers, factions at war. Getting in was hard. Surviving was harder.

They pushed through rain-soaked streets and ruined buildings, following scraps of intel and blood trails that led nowhere fast. Every name on Ellie’s list came with a story, a face, a kill.

The violence got easier. Too easy.

Jesse found them not long after. He said Tommy was out here too—chasing revenge alone. Said they needed to bring him back.

But Ellie wasn’t looking for Tommy. She wasn’t even looking for Abby anymore.

She was looking for something to fill the hole Joel left behind.

Day after day, they bled through Seattle. The WLF collapsed under the weight of its own war with the Seraphites. Dina got sick—really sick. And that’s when Ellie learned she was pregnant.

Jesse stayed behind to protect her.

Ellie kept going.

She found Owen. She found Mel. She made mistakes she couldn’t take back. She killed people who begged her not to.

And then Abby found her.

Jesse was dead before Ellie could blink.

Tommy was shot. Dina nearly killed.

Abby stood over them, gun raised, shaking. But she didn’t pull the trigger. She spared Ellie. Again. Told her to stop chasing ghosts. And left.

They limped back to Jackson. Broken. Quiet.

A few months later, Dina gave birth to JJ, and they left for the farm. The world slowed there. JJ learned to walk. Ellie tried to sleep. Tried to forget. But the nightmares kept coming, and Joel’s death echoed through the walls.

Eighteen months passed.

Then Tommy came to the door.

He brought a name, a location.

Abby. Santa Barbara.

Ellie packed the next day. She didn’t ask Dina’s permission. She didn’t say goodbye to JJ. She just left.

Because closure was a lie. But revenge still looked like hope.

SEATTLE DAY 3. A FEW HOURS AFTER ELLIE LEAVES.

You’ve been moving for months. No destination. No map. Just instinct and that voice in your head that told you to keep going.

You circled cities. Avoided roads. Walked until your boots split at the seams. Sometimes you rode Ace. Sometimes you didn’t. Goji never left your side.

You ate berries and old ration packs. You killed the infected. Then, finally—Seattle.

The city was more skeleton than city. Rotting from the inside. Roads buckled. Buildings torn down to bone and metal. Signs of a war long since detonated. The snow was gone now, but the cold had stayed.

You’d been here three days.

Low on ammo. Tired of ration bars. Goji curled tight in your coat every night like she thought the shadows might swallow her.

You hadn’t spoken to anyone in months. Not really.

Until you found them.

It happened outside an old laundromat, just past the flood zone. You’d been tracking signs of a fight—dried blood, fresh drag marks, a broken arrow wedged into the rusted hood of a car.

You heard them before you saw them. Strained breathing. Footsteps sloshing through a soaked alley. A sharp, familiar growl.

Goji froze on your shoulder.

“Behind you!” someone yelled.

You rounded the corner just in time to see a tall woman—shoulders wide, arm bandaged, swinging at a stalker with a metal pipe. A kid behind her, slight and fast, backing into a wall with a knife in hand.

You didn’t think. You moved.

One bullet, clean through the stalker’s head. Then a second, hitting the runner creeping up the alley behind them.

They turned to look at you.

The woman tensed immediately. Raised her arm as if ready to swing at you next.

The kid stepped between you, breathing hard and said, “We don’t want trouble.”

Goji chirped once. Like she had something to say about it. You lowered your gun.

“Good,” you said. “Neither do I.”

They were cautious. Especially the woman—Abby, she said later.

The kid was Lev. Quiet but focused. Eyes like steel, voice like water.

They asked if you were with the WLF. You said no. They asked what you were doing here.

“Trying to stay alive,” you responded.

That was enough.

They let you follow them back to what was left of their safehouse—a half-demolished apartment with cracked walls and mold climbing the corners. There was barely enough food for one. Lev handed you a protein bar anyway.

You stayed one night. Then another.

You didn’t mean to join them. But days passed, and they didn’t ask you to leave.

You hunted. Patched wounds. Slept lightly. Goji guarded the door like she was waiting for something worse.

Abby noticed quickly.

Not just that you were skilled—that was obvious from the first time she saw you field-dress a wound without flinching, or the way your eyes always found the exits before you sat down.

She noticed the way you slept with your boots on. The way your back never touched a wall unless your knife was in hand. The way Goji stayed pressed to your ribs like she knew something you hadn’t said out loud yet,

“You’re good at traps,” Abby said one morning. You were crouched in the hallway, rigging a wire between two cracked beams where the tiles had all but rotted through.

You didn’t look up. “I’ve had practice.”

“Where’d you learn?”

You twisted the wire tighter. “Nowhere good.”

That was enough. She didn’t press.

Lev was more curious. He watched you lay a snare like it was a magic trick.

“You train her to help?” he asked, pointing at Goji as she nudged a small pouch into place.

You nodded. “She knows the signs.”

“What signs?”

You tapped twice on your boot. Goji immediately crept back to your side, quiet as snow.

Lev stared, wide-eyed. “Can you teach me?”

You hesitated. Then you shrugged. “Yeah. Sure.”

Later, he followed you out into the alley behind the safehouse. You showed him how to bend the wire just right, how to anchor the base with broken concrete, how to tie a signal can so it didn’t rattle in the wind but still made noise when something heavy came through.

“You’re good at this,” he said.

You didn’t answer at first. Just twisted the final knot and stood.

“I used to teach other kids,” you said finally. “Back where I’m from.”

He looked at you. “What happened to them?”

You didn’t answer that part. He didn’t ask again.

But he stayed close that night—sat on the floor beside you and Goji while Abby patched her shoulder in the other room. No talking. Just soft, shared quiet.

It wasn’t peace. But it was something close.

The safehouse was too quiet on the last morning.

No WLF patrols outside. No radio chatter. No reason to stay.

The rain had stopped sometime during the night. What was left behind was a city sagging under its own weight—windows shattered, walls tagged with names of the dead, alleys overgrown with weeds that didn’t care who had died there first.

Abby stood by the table, shouldering her pack with steady hands. The bruises from the last mission were still healing around her neck.

Lev tied the drawstring on his bag three times before he was satisfied. His bow was slung across his back, arrows in a plastic tube he'd repurposed from the ruins of a sporting goods store.

You sat cross-legged in the corner, Goji curled on your thighs, purring like nothing outside the walls mattered.

No one said it was time. You just felt it.

“We’ll follow the coast,” Abby said, double-checking the map. “Avoid the roads. Keep moving.”

“Water’s better,” Lev added. “They don’t follow near the cliffs.”

You nodded. “And if they do, they’ll regret it.”

That got the tiniest smile out of Abby.

The plan was vague. The lead in Santa Barbara was barely more than a whisper—a rumor from a friend who said there were Fireflies regrouping on a little island.

You didn’t care if it was real. You just needed it to be away.

You took the long way through the city. Past the collapsed stadium. Past the checkpoint where WLF gear still rotted under the sun. Past a fire-damaged mural that used to be a promise and now was just ash.

No one said goodbye. There was no one left to say it.

That night before leaving, you found Lev curled up on the floor of the safehouse, still awake.

“Do you think it’s real?” he asked.

“What?” you murmured.

“The Fireflies. Starting over.”

You didn’t answer for a while. Then, “I think we’ll find something. Maybe not what we expect. But something.”

He nodded like he believed you.

Abby passed by the door, pausing just long enough to murmur, “We better.”

You just kept walking.

When you reached the marina, the boat was still there.

Owen’s old sailboat.

It had been patched up as best it could—tarp over the hole in the side of the mast, salt-dried ropes.

Lev climbed in first. Abby passed up the bags. You handed Goji into Lev’s arms and took one last look over your shoulder.

You stepped aboard.

The water was black and cold, reflecting nothing.

The wind pushed you gently away from the dock. Away from the city. Away from everything you used to be.

No one spoke for hours.

You sat near the bow, rifle strapped to your back, hands resting on your knees, Goji tucked into your coat again. Her ears flicked in the breeze, but she didn’t move.

Abby manned the sails. Lev watched the horizon. You watched them both.

You didn’t know what waited at the other end of this journey. But for now, the boat held. The water held.

And that was enough.

SOMEWHERE ALONG THE PACIFIC COAST. 15 MONTHS BEFORE SANTA BARBARA.

The road bends inland for a stretch—past a rusted sign for an abandoned coastal town. A few collapsed buildings. A broken convenience store. A dry rotted fruit stand sagging under its own frame.

But behind it, trees. Old ones.

Apple trees. Small, wild, overgrown—but growing all the same.

You and Abby scout the area. No signs of infected. No people either. Just raccoon tracks and the distant echo of gulls.

You fill a bag with what’s still good. Lev throws an apple into the air, catches it with both hands.

“Tastes like vinegar,” he says.

You smirk. “Still better than beans.”

Goji bats one off the table. Abby snorts.

You stay the night in the orchard's empty shed. The roof leaks. But no one complains.

A week later, you find a flooded stretch of highway—half-submerged from the tide, the other half cracked wide open from an old landslide.

You wade through waist-deep water to get to a buried gas station.

You find matches. Lev finds canned fruit. Abby finds an unopened first aid kit and nearly cries. Goji chases a crab into the corner and gets pinched on the nose.

You carry her out laughing, for the first time in… too long.

That night, you share the fruit. The fire burns low on the beach. Lev curled near a pile of driftwood, sketching shapes into the sand with a stick. Abby’s out of sight, watching the treeline. You sit near the fire, Goji curled against your hip, twitching in her sleep.

Lev glances up as you flip absently through your journal, thumb running along a frayed edge.

“You’ve had that a while,” he says.

You nod. “It’s come with me through a lot.”

He doesn’t say anything for a minute.

Then: “Can I see it?”

You pause. Not long enough to say no. Just long enough to feel the weight of it in your hands.

Then you pass it over.

He turns the pages slowly. Reads a few lines out loud in a whisper, almost to himself.

I buried something soft in the earth. Not a person. Not a memory. Just the part of me that wanted to be forgiven.

“What does that mean?” he asks.

You shrug. “Beats me.”

He snorts, flipping again.

You looked at me like I mattered and for a second, I believed it. Then you blinked, and I remembered who I was.

He raises an eyebrow at that one. “Who’s that about?”

You pull a thread from your sleeve, roll it between your fingers like you were rolling a blunt.

“Just someone I used to know.”

“Someone from before?”

“Something like that.”

He flips one more page—and stops.

The photographs sits there, half-tucked into the binding.

Faces, frozen in a time where things were better. You, a little younger. Ellie beside you. Jesse just over your shoulder. Joel and Tommy blurred in the background. One of those moments that looked casual at the time, but now feels like a memory etched in stone.

You reach over gently and close the journal halfway.

“Don’t wrinkle that.”

Lev doesn’t push. You don’t offer.

“Sorry,” he says quietly.

You shake your head. “It’s fine.”

He hands it back a moment later. Doesn’t say anything else. You don’t, either.

The fire had burned low, but sleep hadn’t come.

Even after Lev dozed off beside you, even after Abby finished her round and settled near the edge of the camp with her eyes on the dark, even after Goji curled up close to your chest.

The journal lay beside you, closed but not forgotten.

You’d tucked the photo deeper between the pages.

Still too visible. Still too much.

So when the sky turned gray and the fog rolled in, you were the first one moving.

The town was barely a town anymore. A fishing village, maybe, if you squinted through the rot and seaweed. Broken boats slumped in the sand like skeletons. The air was thick with salt and mildew. Signs of life—distant, faint, but still there—lingered in the shells of old homes and shops.

You split up to scavenge some more. Lev headed toward the diner with his bow drawn. Abby disappeared between two cabins. You stuck close to the bait shack. Goji perched on your shoulder again, tail brushing your neck.

That’s when you heard it. A soft delicate meow—not Goji’s, but close.

She jumped down before you could stop her, trotting toward the side of a rusted-out truck. That’s where you saw her.

A black cat. Sleek. Slightly larger than Goji, but just as graceful. Her eyes were green, flecked with gold and sharp, fixed on Goji like she already knew her.

Goji chirped once, sat back on her haunches.

The black cat approached slowly. No fear. No tension.

And then they touched noses.

You didn’t move. Barely breathed.

They moved around each other like shadows converging. Brushing, curling, twining in silent choreography. Goji let out a low purr and flopped onto her side in the dirt. The black cat followed, stretching long beside her like it was home.

Something inside your chest twisted. Too familiar. Too easy.

Abby rounded the corner behind you, her rifle slung low. She stopped mid-step.

“Who’s that?” she asked, voice low.

“Not ours,” you muttered.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Lev showed up a second later, scanning the ground for signs of movement. When he saw the two cats curled up in the dust like they’d always been together, his face lit up.

“She’s still here?” he asked. “I thought she’d run off.”

You didn’t answer.

Goji was licking the black cat’s head. The sound made something ugly curl in your stomach.

“She’s a stray,” you said. “We don’t need two.”

“But she’s not hurting anything,” Lev said. “She and Goji get along.”

“That’s the problem.” You said it quieter than you meant to. Too soft to challenge, too loud to take back.

Abby looked at you, really looked. But didn’t say a word.

Lev knelt by the cats, watching them with a child’s kind of awe. “Can we keep her?”

You crossed your arms. “You gonna carry her when she gets tired?”

He shrugged. “Maybe.”

You watched the two of them—Goji and her shadow, tangled together in the dirt—and you hated how much it reminded you of something else. Of someone else.

You turned away.

“If she follows, fine,” you muttered. “But I’m not naming her.”

The black cat stretched, eyes half-closed, and rested her head against Goji’s side. Like she’d already decided she was staying.

You walked off without another word, boots loud against the ruined pavement.

Behind you, the purring didn’t stop.

It's been quiet for hours. The kind of quiet that settles in your chest and makes everything feel too still.

The boat rocks slow over black water. Windless. Salt-still. The stars above are sharp and loud. The kind of night that looks like it should mean something.

Abby’s asleep inside, her shoulder pressed to a bundle of rope. Lev is on the mattress by Abby, tracing something in the wood by firelight. Goji and the black cat are curled together between them—warm, breathing slow.

You sit with your back against the side of the door, watching the sky from behind the steering wheel, knees pulled to your chest, journal open in your lap. The pen hovers above the page for a long time before you start to write.

the boat rocks harder tonight. waves slapping like hands that dont know how to be gentle i can hear goji and the black one (still no name) curled under the tarp behind me, breathing like one animal instead of two. Abby’s out cold for once. Lev might be dreaming, or remembering. he’s got that look again. like he’s still asking the world to give him something worth keeping. i keep writing poems i don’t like. i dont throw them away. i think i like the sound of failing gently. i hate the black cat. not really. i hate what she reminds me of. i hate how easy goji fell asleep beside her. i hate that it makes me think of you. Lev asked me what the poem meant. i told him it didnt mean anything. that some things just happen. i hope that was a lie. i think i miss you. i think i hate that too. i hope we make it. i hope you’re alive. i hope i never see you again. i hope you look for me anyway.

4 MONTHS LATER

The shore comes into view through the mist.

It doesn’t feel like arrival. It feels like something waiting.

Santa Barbara lies crooked against the coastline—palms bent with wind, rooftops half-eaten by salt and rot. The cliffs rise sharp from the sea, crowded with weeds and dead power lines. You can see the bones of the old world everywhere—rusted signs, scorched pavement, the carcass of a freeway curled into the hills.

You don’t say anything as the boat nudges against the dock. Neither does Abby.

She ties the line off with practiced hands. Lev watches the beach, his brows knit—not in fear. In awe.

The road curves inland from the dock, sun baked and mostly quiet. You walk in step with Abby and Lev, boots crunching on loose gravel., the green around you strangely alive for a place so forgotten. Grass pushes up through cracked pavement. Trees lean overhead, their shadows long. Rusted out sedans bake in the heat, windows shattered, tires flat as bones.

Lev is muttering something. You catch it after a few seconds.

“2425 Constance… 2425 Constance…”

Abby stops beside him and raises her eyebrows. “Okay, Constance. Now we just need…” She looks between the two of you, waiting.

You shrug and now toward the houses up ahead. “Starting counting, I guess.”

Lev exhales, displeased. Already tired. “We checked this street a week ago,” he grumbles. “Can’t believe you traded a pistol for this.”

“It’s a lead,” Abby says, already walking again.

“No way that guy saw Fireflies over here,” Lev mutters, quieter.

Abby turns back, her voice still hopeful. “Stop. I feel good about this.”

You glance at Lev and give a small smile. “You know she’s never wrong, right?”

He scowls.

Abby doesn’t slow. “Come on.”

You fall into step beside Lev.

“2410…” he reads off a number on a sun-faded mailbox.

Abby glances back and cuts in. “not going to be on that side. It’s all evens.”

Lev looks across the street. “2409… so 2425 should be that way?”

Yeah.”

You squint down the block. “That house looks half eaten by termites. Perfect candidate.”

Abby jogs off ahead. Lev sighs and follows. You do too, brushing past a fence wound thick with ivy. It rattles as you pass.

The three of you move down the street. Abby peeks into overgrown yards. Lev counts the house numbers under his breath. The heat sits heavy on your back.

After a quiet beat, Lev speaks again.

“If the Fireflies are still out there…” he trails off.

“Yeah?” Abby prompts.

“What do you think they’re doing?”

Abby doesn’t answer immediately. “I dunno. The goal was always to restore society… There’s all sorts of ways to go about it.”

You speak up. “First step’s just surviving long enough to try.”

Abby walks ahead toward a crumbling wall tagged with graffiti.

She slows. “That’s weird graffiti.”

You follow her gaze. A strange symbol—angular and unfamiliar—is scratched deep into the stucco, faded from sun.

“Fireflies?” Lev asks.

Abby shakes her head. “No. Nothing I recognize.”

You eye it warily. “Looks more like a warning than a welcome.”

The street narrows. Abby pushes forward.

“2417…” she reads aloud. “Getting warmer.”

Lev groans. “I hope not. I’m sweating already.”

Abby grins. “You’re such a goober.”

Lev makes a face. “What?”

You smirk. “She’s not wrong.”

Then Lev stops. “Hey—something’s out there.”

You all freeze.

An infected stumbles out from behind a rusted-out SUV.

Abby moves first. Quick, silent. A clean takedown. The creature crumples to the sidewalk with a wet sound.

She kneels, pockets supplies from the corpse.

You keep watch. Lev creeps up beside you.

“We’re close now,” he says.

Then he points. “2425.”

“Attaboy,” Abby murmurs.

The house slouches near the end of the block, nearly hidden behind a collapsing fence and overgrown shrubs. The paint might’ve once been green, now sun-bleached yellow-grey. Ivy strangles the siding. The porch sags, couch cushions sun-faded and mottled with mold.

The front door is blocked. Abby leads you around the side.

The garage door groans open with effort—just enough for you all to slip through. Inside: dusty storage shelves, cracked concrete, old boxes falling apart at the seams. The air smells like mildew and mouse droppings.

Lev glances around. “Looks abandoned… like all the other houses.”

Abby’s tone stays firm. “Keep searching.”

You step past them toward a shelf littered with broken picture frames and old coffee tins. Nothing useful.

Abby picks up a letter from the floor, squinting at the address.

“Huh. 2425 Constance,” she reads aloud. “This is the place.”

Lev doesn’t look convinced. “Okay but—there’s nothing here.”

Abby exhales. “We don’t… know that yet.”

You say quietly, “Doesn’t feel like nothing.”

They keep searching. You dig through a water-warped cabinet. Lev kicks a broken lamp aside. Abby starts to look discouraged.

Then—

“Lev,” she says. “I think we’re done here.”

“No, wait.” Lev kneels beside an old bookcase and points to the floor. “Scratches.”

You kneel beside him. The marks are faint, but definitely from movement.

Abby steps in. “Scooch.”

You both back up. She grabs the shelf and shoves with her full weight. It scrapes across the floor, revealing a dark hole behind it.

A stairwell. Down into a basement.

Abby calls, “Hello?”

The silence answers back. You draw your weapon just in case.

You descend carefully.

The basement air is thick—musty and cool like something sealed shut too long. The concrete steps creak beneath your boots. A low ceiling presses in above. The light is dim, leaking from a broken bulb and slats in a boarded-up window.

Dust floats in slow spirals.

The room opens up: bunk beds lined along one wall, metal frame tables with overturned chairs. A mess of old gear, torn paperbacks, moldy sleeping bags. You run your hand along the edge of a rusted cot.

“Been a while since anyone’s been here,” Lev says quietly behind you.

You nod. “Still smells like someone left in a hurry.”

Abby’s scanning everything—her eyes never stop moving. She crosses the room toward what looks like a makeshift communications desk.

“Pretty nice barracks,” she mutters. “All things considered.”

A map hangs behind the desk—west coast states from Washington to Baja. Lines and pins mark old Firefly locations. Some are circled. Most are crossed out.

Abby runs her hand over the desk, brushing away a film of dust. “They were here for a while.”

You step beside her, pointing to the map. “That one’s Santa Barbara, right?”

She nods, but her eyes are locked on the radio sitting to the side—dusty, but intact.

She adjusts the knobs. A low hiss answers back. Static.

“They had power down here,” she mutters. “Look around.”

Lev breaks off to the left, poking around stacked boxes and drawers. You search to the right, checking a wall cabinet.

You flip a switch.

The lights hum softly overhead. A low electrical buzz rolls through the space.

Abby raises her eyebrows. “Guess they’ve got solar.”

Lev walks over, clearly impressed. “Oh.”

Abby sits down at the radio, pressing the button on the mic.

“Is this frequency currently in use?” she says. “This is—”

Static cuts her off.

She lets go of the mic and flips through the scattered papers. “Do you see a call sign anywhere?”

Lev glances up. “A what?”

“It’s a short list of numbers and letters.”

You start scanning nearby papers, lifting old receipts and torn notebooks.

Lev finds something clipped to a battered clipboard and hands it over. “What’s this?”

Abby takes it quickly, flattening it on the desk. “These’re frequencies.”

She begins inputting them, slow and careful.

You watch the dials twitch. Static. Silence.

She presses the mic again. “Is this frequency currently in use? This is Abby from Santa Barbara. Is anyone out there?”

You scan the basement while she waits. Lev crosses his arms, quiet.

The first set gets nothing. Then the second. More static.

“Are these Firefly outposts?” Lev asks, peering over her shoulder.

“I don’t know,” Abby says.

She tries another set. “Can anyone hear me? Hello?”

Still nothing.

Her voice cracks slightly as she tries again, this time more urgent.

“Is this frequency currently in use? Hello, this is Abby from Santa Barbara. Can anyone hear me? If anyone can hear me… please reply. Please answer.”

She releases the mic. Static hisses back.

And then, finally, “Hi, Abby. We got a clear signal on you.”

Her whole body stiffens. She leans in as the person on the other end speaks up. “Where in Santa Barbara are you calling from?”

“2425 Constance,” she answers quickly. “We got a tip about a base, but there’s no one here. We’re looking for Fireflies. I’m a—I’m a Firefly.”

“Where were you stationed?”

“Salt Lake. My dad ran the outpost. Dr. Jerry Anderson.”

You glance at Lev, who nods slightly, as if remembering.

A small pause on the other end of the line.

“Well, how about that,” the voice says. “We pulled everyone back from the satellite stations. Brought them to home base.”

Abby leans forward. “How many of you are there?”

“We’re about… two hundred strong now. With more every month.”

She turns to Lev, almost laughing. “Owen was right.”

Then she presses the mic again. “You’re about to get two more. How do we find you?”

“Get to Catalina Island,” the voice says. “Approach the large domed building in Avalon. We’ll find you.”

Abby exhales. “Okay… okay. We’ll see you soon. Over and out.”

“Looking forward to it. Good luck, Abby from Santa Barbara. Over and out.” The radio clicks off.

A strange stillness settles over the room. The air feels lighter, like hope just filled it.

You glance at Abby. “We’re really doing this?”

“Damn right,” she says. “Let’s get back to the sailboat.”

Lev smiles faintly. “Okay, fine. You were right.”

Abby grins at him. “What was that?”

He groans. “Why do you make me repeat it?”

“Because it makes me feel better. And because it happens so rarely.”

You let out a small laugh. “Come on. Let’s go before this place falls on us.”

You follow them back up through the basement, the light behind you flickering slightly.

The sun hangs low as Abby steps out of the garage.

Warm light stretches across the overgrown lawn. The street ahead is silent—windows broken, yards wild and tangled. The house behind you looms in stillness. A strange finality settles in your chest, like a chapter closing.

Abby leads the way out of the garage. You and Lev follow close behind.

WHAM.

Abby goes down. A man slams a metal bat across her head from the side. Another figure—a woman—tackles her from behind, pinning her.

“Abby!” you shout, rushing forward.

Abby growls, slamming the woman back against the garage wall. She lands a hit—but the man is already winding up again.

CRACK.

The metal bat lands in Abby’s ribs. She collapses with a breathless grunt.

You reach for your weapon, but a blur comes at you from the side.

WHUMP.

Something heavy slams into your back. You hit the ground hard. Pain rattles up your spine.

Lev bursts through the garage behind you, bow drawn. He fires, an arrow slicing into the man’s shoulder.

The man screams, falling backward.

Abby pushes herself up, shoving off her attacker—but before she can stand fully, another figure charges in from the side.

SMASH.

A second man strikes Lev across the face. You watch helplessly as Lev crumples, his head bouncing off the metal frame of the garage.

“Lev!” Abby yells, scrambling toward him.

You crawl after her, but arms close around you, grabbing your wrists, dragging you back. You thrash, kicking.

“Get the little one,” someone shouts.

You twist, trying to see Lev. He’s not moving.

Abby snarls, clawing toward him, but she’s tackled again. A man pins her arms while a second rains punches into her side.

She grunts, breath knocked out of her.

“Don’t you fucking touch him!” she screams, voice wild.

But they’re too many.

You feel a knee dig into your back. Hands wrench your arms behind you. Cold zip-ties snap around your wrists.

You struggle, but a boot slams into your ribs, flattening your breath. You wheeze, barely able to lift your head.

One of them—tall, gruff, older—steps toward Abby. “One hell of a catch, huh?”

“C’mere,” he says to the man with the arrow in his shoulder.

The injured one steps forward, blood running down his arm.

“What? What’re you doing? Wait-wait-AHH!” he screams as the older man yanks the arrow out with a brutal jerk.

“Fuck, man!”

“You’re fine. Go grab the little one.”

Your heart spikes. You scream. “Don’t! He’s just a kid!”

But they don’t care.

Abby kicks against her captors, teeth bared. She gets one hand free—only for another figure to slam her back down and tie her wrists tight. One of them pulls a dirty cloth from their belt and wraps it around Abby’s mouth. Her shouts muffle into growls.

You try to rise, but hands shove you back down.

“Hold still.”

You see Lev’s limp form dragged by the shoulders.

“No!” you yell.

Then darkness falls. A sack drops over your head. The air inside is stale and damp. You gasp against the fabric. Your heart slams against your chest.

Rough hands haul you up by the arms. Your shoulders scream in protest. You hear Abby grunting through her gag. Lev isn’t making a sound.

And then a hard, cold pressure at the base of your skull. Everything goes still.

Your world narrows to breath, cloth, and the copper taste of blood in your mouth.

The next time you wake, you’re on your side—cheek pressed against a stained mattress that stinks like mold. There’s a collar around your neck. Thick. Rubber. Wired. You don;t know if it;s real, or if you dreamed it, but it pressed hard into your throat when you try to move.

Your wrists are zip-tied. Your ankle, too.

You’re in a cage. Metal bars. A rusted latch. No more than six feet across. A single flickering bulb hums from the ceiling.

Across from you, another cage. Empty.

Voice again. One closer.

“Where’s the tall one?”

“Gone. Probably sold.”

Your vision burns.

You close your eyes again. Just for a second. Just for—

—

You don’t know how long it’s been.

Time dripped slowly—measured only in bruises and dreams that never finished. Sometimes you were awake. Sometimes not. You don’t remember eating. You don’t remember sleeping. Only pain. Dull and deep in your side where they hit you. Burning behind your eyes from the fever.

And the collar. Still tight around your throat.

You’ve been planning to escape for two days. You’ve just been waiting for the right moment. For the storm. The shift change. The right shadow to fall in the right place.

And now? Now the power’s out. Thunder cracks above like the gods themselves are angry.

It’s time.

You twist your wrists again, fighting the zip ties, and grit your teeth against the bite of it. You’ve been working them loose for hours—using the edge of the mattress frame, the bolt on the floor, anything with an edge. The plastic digs deep, splits skin. You taste blood when you bite down on the inside of your cheek to stay quiet.

Snap.

One wrist.

Then the other.

You go still, listening. No footsteps. No breathing. Just the rain, battering the rooftop like it’s trying to wash the whole place away.

You rise slowly, legs trembling from disuse. Your knee pops, and your vision pulses, but you make it to the bars. The cage is old. Warped. You’ve tested the latch three times. This time, you shoulder into it with everything you have.

First hit: nothing. Second: a groan of rust. Third; it breaks open with a shriek of metal.

You stagger out. And then you see it. Movement in the corner. Two eyes. Low to the ground. Gleaming green in the dark.

“Goji?” you breath, voice raw.

Goji meows softly, like you’ve been gone for a few days, not kidnapped and locked in a cage. Her tail flicks and her fur is soaked from the storm.

Tears spring to your eyes.

You drop to your knees, ignoring the ache in your legs. She climbs into your arms without hesitation, purring against your collarbone like it’s just another morning. You bury your face in her wet fur and try not to sob.

“God, Goji…” you whisper. “What are you doing here?”

She meows again, like she followed your scent across a hundred miles of rot and rain. Like she knew exactly where to go. And somehow you believed she did.

You clutch her to your chest, trembling.

“Okay,” you murmur. “We’re getting out of here.”

You check the hall. Empty.

You move fast, barefoot, quiet as you can, one hand on the bat you’d found tucked behind a broken shelf. The other is still cradling Goji. She doesn’t struggle.

You reach the back exit—a busted security door leading to the outer yard. The air hits your face like freedom. Cold. real.

You slip out into the dark.

It takes everything you have to run.

The pain in your side returns fast—white-hot, dizzying. Your legs buckle once on the hill, but you catch yourself. Goji yowls, and you whisper apologies, stumbling into the brush until the compound disappears behind the trees.

You don’t stop until your lungs burn.

There, you see it. A half-collapsed shed. Wood sagging under moss. Rot curling in the corners. But it’s dry inside.

You collapse there. You wrap your arms around Goji like she’s the only thing tethering you to the world. And maybe she is.

Your eyes slip closed. Not sleep. Just stillness. And in the quiet, with the storm passing, and your body curled around something that still remembers you, you feel the fight return. Slowly.

Like breath.

The first night after your escape, you don’t sleep. Not really.

You lie on your back in the half-collapsed shed, staring up at the mold stained ceiling as Goji paces in tight circles beside your head, tail twitching. The pain in your side hasn’t faded. If anything, it’s sharper now. But you’re used to the pain. You’ve lived through worse.

What you haven’t lived with, is the silence.

The absence of Abby’s steady breath when she sleeps.

The space where Lev should be, humming quietly while he whittles arrow shafts.

You didn’t know if they were alive. But you’re going to find out. And if they’re not, you’d burn the whole place down.

By morning, you’ve mapped what you remember. The basic layout. Patrol patterns. Weak spots. You use sharp rocks to sketch it on the floorl of the shed. Your lines are shaky from the fever, but they’re clear enough.

Goji watches from her perch on a stacked crate, tail curled tight, eyes sharp.

“Two days,” you whisper, mostly to her. “We rest for two. Then we go.”

She blinks slowly, like she understands.

You gather what you can from the woods—bandages from an old hiking pack, food scraps in a fallen cooler, a rusted switchblade left behind in a broken glove box. You boil water. Sew up your side with thread so brittle it snaps twice.

You scream once. But you don’t stop.

You name every face you remember. You commit their weapons to memory. Their voices. Their scars. You whisper them out loud as the fever breaks and the sweat dries on your skin.

They don’t know what they took. They don’t know what they made.

NIGHT THREE

The gate creaks when the wind shifts, just enough to let out the sound of a scream that’s already stopped echoing.

You crouch in the tree line, mud cold against your knees. The trees smell like rot and smoke, like ghosts of things that should have stayed buried. Goji’s pressed low beside you, ears pinned back, every movement silent, liquid.

You don’t breathe until the guard at the fence turns his back. He stretches, yawns. His rifle dangles from a loose grip.

You move fast.

Boots barely hit the ground. One hand clamps over his mouth. The other slides the blade clean between his ribs. His knees give.

You drag him into the brush, tuck his body beneath a fallen limb. His blood soaks the moss in silence.

Goji climbs after you as you slip through the shadows.

The radio on his hip crackles once before you cut it. Just static.

You keep it anyway.

You move like water through the back quarter. Around the storage sheds. Past the makeshift kennels where they kept their dogs—already empty. The animals must have sensed something coming. Something violent.

One of the guards hums to himself near the fuel shack.

He doesn’t get to finish the tune.

You break his nose against the edge of a barrel. He slumps, stunned, and the blade does the rest. This one you leave in the dirt, slumped forward, face hidden in his own blood.

You want them to see it.

To start counting. To feel the weight of subtraction.

You’re back in the trees by sunrise.

There are six bodies now. Maybe more if you count the one in the drainage pit. You haven’t been keeping exact numbers. Only movements. Only holes in the patrol lines.

They’ve stopped laughing.

You hear barking orders in the dark. Flashlights skimming too fast across empty grass. Voice cracking under stress.

You listen. Then vanish.

Later, you find one scavenging along the old fence line—twitchy, boots too loud on gravel, muttering as he digs through a rust‑flaked ration box.

This time you let him notice you.

You ease into the flashlight’s cone, the blood‑stained bat resting on your shoulder, shadows carving hard angles across your face. He jerks so violently the can slips from his fingers and clatters away.

“Don’t scream,” you say, voice boiled down to iron.

He clamps a hand over his own mouth, nodding frantically, eyes blown wide. “W‑We didn’t know there was another— They said—”

You close the distance in one step, boot heel pinning his wrist to the dirt. He whines.

“Where are they?”

“Who—who do you mean?”

“The tall woman. The kid with the bow.” Your fingers tighten on the bat’s handle. “Try again.”

He blurts, words tumbling, breath hitching. “Across the dry riverbed! Old prefab shells—past the storage yard! Four guards—maybe five—some are missing, I don’t know why, please—please, I never touched them, I swear—”

You study him, head tilted, heartbeat calm as snowfall now that you have what you need.

“Thank you,” you say, and for an instant he almost sags with relief.

Almost.

Your free hand slides the stolen switchblade from your belt. The motion is quiet, practiced. His eyes flick down too late.

A single thrust—clean between the ribs, angled up. Air leaves him in a wet gasp; his knees fold.

You lower him gently, bat still in your other hand, until his back meets the tree roots. He tries to speak—chokes on it. You press gloved fingers to his lips.

“Hush,” you whisper. “You’re done talking.”

His pulse stutters under your hand… then stops.

For a moment the rain is the only sound—the soft patter on leaves, the hush of wind through ruined fencing. Goji winds around your ankles, tail brushing your calf, as if approving.

You wipe the blade on his coat, rise without looking back.

The forest swallows you again, the bat dripping crimson, the path ahead already narrowing to a single, sharp purpose:

Find them. Free them. Leave nothing breathing behind.

—

.You don’t expect the quiet. Not this kind.

The outer perimeter is deserted. No guards, no patrol lights, only yesterday’s bodies where you dropped them, except one, dragged away, a fresh ribbon of blood marking the ground.

Your stomach knots, not with fear but recognition. Someone else is hunting.

You slow, moving from shadow to shadow, slipping between half‑collapsed sheds and choke‑vines. Goji ghosts at your heels, tail low, ears flattened.

Another corpse lies face down in the dry creek bed, a neat hole drilled through his temple. Not your work. Not the Rattlers’ style either.

You step over him.

A second body slumps against a fence post—a knife buried clean between the shoulder blades, placement so precise it feels surgical.

Farther on, a third shape sprawls behind the main building, throat torn wide as if ripped by teeth.

Blood dots the dirt in scattered crescents. Not a trail, but enough to leave boot��prints: size eleven, tread worn smooth.

You track them.

They wind past empty cages, burnt‑out tents, a truck still smoking under the hood as though its engine just gave its last breath. You round the corner and freeze.

Voices. Not orders, not calls for help. Something ragged. Desperate. A wet thud, then a grunt of pain.

You press your back to the wall, listening: fists on flesh, a body dragged through shallow water.

One heartbeat. Two.

You edge to the corner, peek, and stop breathing.

Abby–gaunt, battered, shoulder dangling wrong–kneels in the shallows. Lev is behind them in a boat, only watching in horror.

The attacker straddling Abby is a woman—short, dark hair plastered to her skull, hands slick with blood and rain, fury crackling off her like static. She slams Abby down again, fingers locking around Abby’s throat, forcing her face beneath the water.

Move. You’re running before the thought finishes. Boots pounding wet sand, wind slicing tears from your eyes.

You hit her like a battering ram—shoulder to ribs, full weight, years of loss and rage behind it. She splashes sideways, knife skittering across the shore. You scramble after her, drag her down when she tries to rise.

She’s fast. A knee into your ribs, palm to your chin, pushing. She rolls you, plants a forearm on your chest, reaching—

Metal flashes. You swing first; fist crashes against her jaw. Her head snaps, but she’s already driving the blade.

The knife punches into your right side.

Just below the rib cage, angled up. The blade slices through skin, muscle, and into something deeper. You feel it—not pain at first, just pressure. Then warmth. Then the unmistakable flood of blood inside your shirt.

You gasp.

The world reels. Your knees give out and hit the sand hard.

Ellie steps back, still tense from the fight, ready to turn on Abby again. Then she looks at you. Really looks. Her whole body stills.

“Wait—” she breathes, too quiet to be anything but fear. She moves toward you again, fast now, catching you under the arms as you pitch forward.

“Shit—no, no—” Her hands are already pressing into the wound, trying to hold it closed. “What the fuck were you doing? Why didn’t you say something?”

Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out. Just air. You blink, trying to focus. You see the tattoo on her forearm. The chemical scar that hid her bite mark. Her eyes—wider than you’ve ever seen them.

“Ellie,” you manage. “It’s—it’s me.”

She freezes. Her hands go still against your side. Then tighten.

“No,” she says. “No, no, no—”

You grab her wrist, barely. Your hand’s slippery with blood. You try to breathe through it, but it’s coming out shallow. Your abdomen spasms, each breath makes it worse.

The knife hit something deep.

Stomach? Liver? You don’t know. But it’s bleeding fast. You can feel the heat draining out of you in waves.

“I didn’t know it was you,” you say. “I just saw—I thought you were going to—”

“I was,” she says, quick. Her eyes dart over your face like she’s trying to memorize it. “I was gonna kill her.”

“I know.”

Ellie presses both hands to the wound now, panic mounting in her voice. “Okay—we can fix this. Just hold pressure, I just need to get—get something to stop the bleeding—”

“It’s deep,” you mutter. “You know it’s deep.”

She shakes her head, jaw clenching. “No. You’re not—you’re not dying here. Not now! Not after all this.”

You try to respond, but a sudden wave hits. Cold. Hard. You cough—wet. A little blood slips from the corner of your mouth. Your diaphragm flutters.

“Jesus, no—” Ellie says, pulling you tighter against her. “Stay awake. Stay with me.”

“I waited,” you whisper.

“What?”

“I waited. I thought maybe you’d come. Maybe you’d find me. And then you didn’t. And then I—”

You cough again. Red froths between your teeth.

Ellie cups the back of your head. “Stop talking. Save your breath.”

But you keep going, because that’s all you have left.

“I thought maybe it was done. But I never—” Your breath hitches. “—never stopped thinking about—about that night. About Jackson. And how I left. And you—”

Your voice cracks. Vision goes grey at the edges.

Ellie grips your face in both hands. “Hey. Look at me.”

You do.

“I fucked up,” she says. “I know I did. And I didn’t come back because I thought maybe you hated me.”

“I didn’t.” Your hand slips from her wrist. Your fingers are pale now. “I didn’t hate you. I just—kept going.”

“You were alive all this time,” she says. “And I didn’t even know.”

“I didn’t know you’d care.”

Ellie swallows hard. She’s crying now, quietly. “Of course I fucking care.”

Your jaw’s going slack. Muscles loosening. You’re fading fast.

“I’m scared,” you whisper.

“I know. I know. You’re gonna be okay.”

You shake your head weakly. “You don’t… have to lie.”