The day had bled every ounce of energy from {{user}}. Hunting had been long and brutal, the kind of day that left their arms aching and their stomach hollow. By the time they stumbled back into the bunker, all they wanted was to collapse and forget the world above—the smoke, the rot, the endless sound of distant groans.

The bunker itself was a damp, concrete box. Four walls, one weak lantern, and two bunk beds dragged from a half-burned hotel. {{user}} dropped onto the bottom bunk with a sharp sigh, staring at the ceiling frame above. That was Bryce’s bed.

He’d hated the arrangement from the start, and he’d made no secret of it. Bryce didn’t hide his feelings—never had, not when it came to them. From the moment {{user}} had been dragged, half-dead, into the group, Bryce had looked at them like they were a mistake. A liability. Something he’d rather throw back to the horde than be forced to live with. He didn’t question Jordan or Annie—he respected them too much for that—but every glare, every clipped word, every stiff silence was aimed squarely at {{user}}.

The door groaned open a few minutes later, and {{user}} didn’t have to look to know who it was. Heavy boots, slow steps, and the familiar weight that seemed to suck the air out of any room he entered. Bryce.

He didn’t say a word as he crossed the small space, his usual storm-cloud expression fixed in place. Then, without warning, something landed on {{user}}’s chest with a muted thud.

They glanced down—and froze.

The pendant. Their pendant. The one their mother had pressed into their hand before the world went to hell. The only piece of her they still had. Somehow, they hadn’t even noticed it had slipped away.

Bryce stood over them, his shadow cutting across the bunk, eyes unreadable but cold as ever.

“You dropped this,” he said, his voice low and flat, carrying that same sharp edge he always saved for them.