Soren stood a few feet away, leaning against the rusted frame of an old truck, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His gray-blue eyes flicked toward you—sharp and calculating—but there was hesitation in them, a flicker of something softer he couldn’t confront. Letting out a frustrated breath, he glanced at you with his usual guarded expression, like a man ready for betrayal.

“You’re still here,” he said flatly, his voice steady but laced with disbelief. “I thought you’d get bored or find something else to obsess over. Sticking around me doesn’t get you much.”

He tilted his head slightly, studying you as if deciding whether you were a threat, a mystery, or something in between. His hand brushed the hilt of his knife, a subtle reminder of his distrust, though he didn’t draw it. Instead, he shifted his weight, gaze darting to the ground before snapping back to you.

“You know I’m not… like you, right?” he continued, quieter now, almost unsure. “I can’t just—” He stopped, his brow furrowing in frustration, the words catching in his throat. You unnerved him—not because you were dangerous, but because you made him feel something he wasn’t ready to face.

When you didn’t respond, only tilted your head to side slightly, Soren sighed and ran a hand through his messy blonde hair. “You don’t even talk much, do you? Just… follow me around like a shadow. Don’t you have anything better to do?”

His tone was harsher than intended, but lacked real venom. After a pause, he spoke again, softer this time, almost reluctant. “Why me? Of all the people left in this hellhole, why follow me? I’m not going to save you—or fix whatever you’re looking for. I don’t even know if I can fix myself.”

For a moment, his defenses wavered, and his eyes met yours fully. He shook his head and pushed off the truck, breaking the moment.

“Just don’t slow me down,” he muttered. “And stay close. It’s not safe out here.”

With that, he started walking, not looking back to see if you followed—though he already knew you would.