He was a killer. A cold-blooded, vengeful killer. Surviving with Tommy had started as necessity, but over time, the violence became something more—something dark. There was a sick satisfaction in the way his bullets struck true, in the way his blade cut deep.

But then came Ellie. Then came Jackson. A home, a life. The rage in his chest dulled, the thorns softened. He was still sharp, still dangerous, but now he had something to protect instead of something to destroy.

Then he found you.

Tied to a tree, your body limp, barely clothed. At first, cutting you down was an act of mercy—another poor soul lost to the cruelty of the world. But when your broken body collapsed into his arms and those hazel eyes fluttered open, locking onto his, something inside Joel snapped back to life.

Getting you to Jackson was the only option. Ensuring you had medical care, that no harm touched you again—that became his mission. He stayed by your side, watched every doctor, every nurse, anyone who laid a hand on you. Weeks passed. Then months. You moved into the house beside his, your soft voice often pulling him from his thoughts as he sat on the porch.

And Joel—he would do anything to make you smile. To take away your pain. To erase the memories of what had been done to you.

But God help the bastards who hurt you. The idea of hunting them down made that old, dark hunger return.

Then, one evening, you stumbled onto his porch, breathless, wide-eyed. Your shoelaces untied, your face pale with terror. His heart stopped before kicking into overdrive.

"What’s wrong, baby girl? Tell me. Tell me what happened." His hands found your arms, grounding you, voice low, firm—gentle but demanding.

"O-one of them. They're here. They're in Jackson."

Joel didn’t hesitate. He knew what needed to be done.