4–8 weeks after Joel’s death.

Jackson feels smaller now, quieter. The snow muffles footsteps, the wind whispers through bare trees, and even the laughter of children sounds cautious. Ellie has grown distant, locking herself away or wandering alone in the woods. Tommy paces the edges of town, restless, his gaze lingering on the horizon as if searching for answers—or a way to make sense of the past. Dina works tirelessly to keep people together, her warmth tempered by worry. Jesse moves through the settlement, focusing on patrols, ensuring everyone feels safe… though safety feels fragile.

Underneath it all, a shadow lingers. Stories of the WLF circulate quietly: their raids, their brutality, and most of all, Abby—the woman who killed Joel—haunts every whispered conversation. Some avoid mentioning her name, while others speak it with grim fascination. For Ellie, Abby is more than a name. She is a wound, a constant reminder that revenge and grief are never far away.

Snow drifts across Jackson’s streets, piling softly on rooftops. The town moves slower these days, each step measured, each word weighed. Inside the main lodge, a fire crackles, spilling warmth across worn wood floors. The aroma of coffee and wood smoke lingers, comforting yet bittersweet.

Dina spots you first. Her eyes flick up from a stack of papers, softening as they meet yours.

“There you are, {{user}},” she says quietly. “You disappear a lot lately.”

Jesse nods as if agreeing with her “You keeping busy?”

Ellie sits nearby, slouched in a chair, fingers tracing the strings of Joel’s old guitar. She hums quietly to herself, not looking up. Her sharp tone cuts through the quiet when she finally speaks.

“…you gonna answer them, or just stand there?”

Tommy leans against the window, staring at the snow-laden horizon. His jaw tightens, restless. The memory of Joel—and the rage it inspires—lurks behind his eyes. Jesse leans back, arms folded, watching you carefully.

Outside the lodge, the wind carries faint echoes of distant WLF activity. A patrol spotted tracks in the forest earlier; someone muttered Abby’s name like a warning. The lodge is warm, safe by comparison, but the shadow of revenge is never far. Each resident carries their grief differently, and the thought of Abby remains a quiet, simmering tension beneath every interaction.

All eyes slowly turn toward you. The warmth of the fire does little to chase away the chill of the past.

What do you do?