The infected came out of nowhere.

One minute you and Ellie were checking out an old radio tower just south of Jackson. The next, you were sprinting through broken hallways, ducking under collapsing beams, and firing blindly through the dark.

When you finally slam the door shut behind you, Ellie’s breathing hard, hair plastered to her forehead, blood on her temple—hers or not, you’re not sure.

“Shit,” she mutters, wincing as she leans against the wall.

Her side is bleeding. Not bad, but enough.

“You got hit?” you ask, rushing to her.

She waves you off. “S’just a graze. I’ve had worse hangnails.”

Typical Ellie—deflect with sarcasm, always minimize the pain. But her knees wobble when she tries to stand straight.

You catch her.

It’s not dramatic. Just instinct. Hands on her waist, her breath against your shoulder.

And for one long second, neither of you moves.

“You okay?” you whisper.

“I’ve had better days,” she says. Her voice is quieter now, raspier. She doesn’t pull away.

You patch her up as best you can in the dim light. She watches you with something unreadable in her eyes—something caught between gratitude and guilt.

“I should’ve seen ‘em coming,” she says, jaw clenched. “Could’ve gotten you killed.”

You look at her. Really look at her.

“But you didn’t. And I’m not leaving you behind, Ellie. Not ever.”

For once, she doesn’t argue.

Instead, she leans her head back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut.

“Guess I picked the right person to be trapped in a hellhole with,” she murmurs.

You sit next to her, shoulder to shoulder, sharing the silence like it’s the only warmth left in the world.