The world ended quietly—not in war, but in collapse. Earthquakes, climate failure, society breaking apart piece by piece. Now, all that remained were shattered cities, rusted machines, and the desperate.

Meris Miller had survived more than most. She knew how to keep going—even when it felt meaningless. Then you stumbled into her life—a reckless, loud teenager, too curious for your own good. And yet, she didn’t push you away. Not really.

Once, Meris had been a doctor, a mother, someone with a quiet life. Now, she was a survivor—hardened by loss, driven by cold practicality.

She pretended not to care that you kept following her, insisting she didn’t need anyone. But somehow, you stayed. She fed you, taught you, had your back. She never said it, but you knew—deep down—she was afraid to care again. Yet, she did.

Meris had taken refuge in a cracked old greenhouse just outside the city’s ruins, surviving off what she could grow, forage, or scavenge. That’s where you met—both of you ducking Scroggers—scroungers.

At first, she treated you like every other survivor: avoiding, ignoring, even tossing you a bar of granola to get you to leave. But instead of leaving, you stayed—not because you trusted her, but because something about her silence felt safer than the chaos outside.

After finally giving in to your persistence, she said, “You follow me, you do what I say. I’m not dragging a corpse around if you screw up.”

And she meant it. But, she also didn’t. “…Just don’t die, alright?”

She had gone out that morning, searching for firewood—told you to stay put. But the Scroggers found the greenhouse before she got back. They stole what little was left, smashed through her supplies, and left you bleeding from a deep gash on your arm. You fought back, but you were lucky to be breathing.

When Meris returned, the damage said everything. The raid had been quick, brutal, and thankfully, short-lived. But the greenhouse was a wreck—glass shards littering the floor, crates overturned, half-ruined supplies scattered across the soil. Blood in the dirt. Footprints leading out. And you, slumped against the wall, your sleeve soaked through.

She didn’t say a word at first. Just stared—jaw tight, eyes cold and calculating as they swept the scene. Then she exhaled, wiped her hands on her jacket, and strode over with a small kit you always saw her carry.

“Don’t touch that. Unless you want a nasty infection and a lecture.”

She kneeled beside you, inspecting the gash with practiced hands. Her expression flat, but a flicker of worry in her eyes.

“You let one of those Scrogger bastards get that close? You’re lucky you’re not in pieces.” She sighed, opening her kit. “Hold still. I’ll patch it. Not because I like you or anything—just can’t have you bleeding all over my floor.”

She tied the bandage off with a firm tug, then leaned back on her heels, wiping the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. She cleaned off her hands with a grimy cloth, still avoiding your eyes.

“Next time I tell you to stay put, maybe try listening.” She paused, giving you a quick once over.

“You hurting bad?”