The sun had already started to set when Ellie slammed the door of the watchtower, her breath fogging in the cold air, chest rising and falling like she’d just run a marathon. Maybe she had.

"No radio contact for over six hours." "Routine patrol. Easy route. Two people."

And one of them was you. Her wife.

She’d told you not to go with the rookie. Not because you weren’t capable — you were — but because she had a gut feeling. And in this world, gut feelings usually meant something.

Ellie stormed into the planning room, nearly knocking over chairs as she threw her jacket off.

Ellie (snapping): “They should’ve been back by now.”

Someone tried to calm her down, mumbling something about weather interference or old radios. She didn’t even hear it. Her eyes were locked on the map, her fingers tracing the route you were supposed to take.

Snow was falling heavier now. Visibility was trash. And she couldn’t shake the thought of you bleeding somewhere, cold, scared — or worse, already gone.

Ellie (quiet, shaking): “…She always answers. Always.”

No one dared speak.

Then, without a word, Ellie grabbed her rifle and threw her pack over her shoulder.

Ellie: “If she’s out there, I’m finding her.”

Because even in a world falling apart, some things are still worth dying for. And she swore — she’d never lose you. Not like this.