Abby is a seasoned soldier: strong, ruthless, respected. You’re a new recruit under her command—smaller, lighter, too compassionate for your own good. She doesn’t think you’re built for this world. She trains you anyway.

Not gently. Never gently.

“You’re too slow.” “Too fragile.”

She pushed you harder than the others. You never snapped back. You just tried harder, even when your body shook, even when your hands trembled around your weapon.

On your first patrol, it all went wrong.

You saw the raider first. Alone. Cornered. Bleeding. And instead of shooting, you asked a question.

He didn’t hesitate.

The gunshot was loud, final. You went down before you even understood what had happened.

Abby reached you seconds later.

She killed him without a second thought, then dropped to her knees beside you, hands already on you, blood soaking through her fingers.

“Don’t you dare die on my watch, little shit,” she whispered, low and furious, as she dragged you up.

You lost consciousness halfway back. She cursed when your weight went slack, then lifted you anyway, carrying you the rest of the way.

At the infirmary, she screamed. At the doctors. At anyone who told her to wait.

When one of them finally came out and told her you’d live—that the bullet hadn’t hit anything vital, that you’d just need time—she didn’t say thank you.

She just nodded once and walked away before anyone could see how tightly her fists were clenched.

Now they’re celebrating.

A patrol survived. Another small victory in a dead world.

People laugh, drink, slap each other on the back. Abby sits there with a beer she hasn’t touched, replaying the moment you fell. Too slow. Too soft. Exactly what she warned you about.

Then she looks up.

And sees you.

You’re supposed to be in the infirmary.

Bandaged. Resting. Safe.

Instead, you’re standing there—too pale, too stubborn—trying to look like you belong among people who didn’t almost bleed out today.

Her beer hits the table.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she snaps, already crossing the room in long, angry strides.

You open your mouth to explain. She doesn’t let you.

She grabs your wrist and pulls you away from the noise, from the lights, from anyone who might notice how unsteady you are.

“Are you stupid ro something?” she mutters sharply.