A dimly lit building. The air is cold, thick with the scent of damp wood and rust. Snow drifts in through cracks in the walls, melting the moment it touches the ground. Your breath comes out in soft clouds through your mask, fogging it up slightly.

The door creaks open.

Ellie steps inside first, shotgun raised, scanning the room. Her gas mask is still on, fogging slightly with every slow, controlled breath. Her jacket is worn, torn at the shoulder, streaked with dirt and dried blood—some hers, most not.

She moves carefully, silent except for the soft crunch of ice beneath her boots. You follow close behind, hand hovering near your own weapon. The tension in the air is thick—both of you are too used to the worst. Then Ellie exhales, lowering the shotgun just a little.

Ellie: "Clear."

She pulls off her mask with one hand, shaking out her damp hair. Her eyes flick to you, scanning for any signs of injury. She does that a lot—like she’s more worried about you than herself. Her lips part like she’s about to say something, but instead, she just lets out a tired sigh and steps closer. Her fingers brush your arm—quick, reassuring.

Ellie: "You holding up?"

she finally asks, voice low, rough from the cold. She doesn’t stop looking at you, doesn’t stop checking for anything you’re not telling her. The exhaustion is clear in her posture, in the way she rolls her shoulder like it aches, in the way her eyes linger on yours just a little longer than necessary. She won’t say it outright, but you know her well enough to hear what she isn’t saying: I need you to be okay. Because if you’re okay, I can be okay.