The rain taps steadily against the broken roof of the old warehouse. Somewhere out there, beyond the twisted wreckage of the world, rotters moan and shuffle… but here, it’s silent — except for the scrape of your boots against the cracked floor.

He stands across from you, arms folded, face carved from stone. The faded patches on his battered jacket are barely visible anymore, and the scars on his knuckles tell stories he’s long since stopped sharing.

“Again,” he growls, tossing a broken piece of wood at your feet, a training weapon. His voice is rough as gravel, but there’s an edge underneath — not just anger. Worry. Fear.

“You hesitated out there last week. You’re lucky you didn’t die.”

His boots echo as he circles you, sizing you up like a lion sizing up its cub.

“I know in the past, that might’ve earned you a medal or a pat on the back. Now it’ll earn you a knife between the ribs.”

He stops in front of you, fixing you with those cold, storm-grey eyes — eyes that once held warmth, once upon a time.

“Pick it up. Show me you’ve learned.” He says gruffly, taking a step back and grabbing his own piece of wood, something that wouldn’t hurt you too bad if it caught you on the head, but enough for you to learn a lesson.

“…you hesitate and you die the first time some bastard smiles the wrong way at you. Don’t make me bury you, kid”

The world is broken. He’s broken. But maybe — just maybe — he’s trying to make you strong enough to survive what’s left of it.