The air was thick with tension in the small, dimly lit room. The harsh sound of the storm outside barely reached their ears, muffled by the crumbling walls of the building they were holed up in. The flickering light of a single lamp cast long, wavering shadows across the floor.

Joel was standing near the window, his back to them, the weight of his words still hanging in the air like a storm cloud. He hadn't meant to say it — any of it — but the words had come out anyway, cutting through the silence like a blade. He didn't know why he'd said them, only that it was too late to take them back now.

"You’re not my kid," he’d spat earlier, his voice tight with anger. "And I sure as hell ain't your parent. So stop acting like I owe you something. I ain't got nothing left for you."

They had never known true family, not since their real parents were taken from them when they were barely old enough to remember them. But then there was Joel. Joel, who had saved them, who had kept them alive when everything around them was falling apart. He was all they had left. The only one who had ever really given a damn.

But this? This was worse than the infected. Worse than anything else they’d ever faced.