Joel and you are forced to go on a supply run together—tense, unwilling, but necessary. You don’t trust him, don’t want to rely on him, but out here, survival comes first. He watches your back, but you don’t want him to. Not after what he did.

Years ago, Joel killed the person you loved. Your partner. He did it because, back then, he was a man who saw survival in absolutes—kill or be killed, take before someone else does. He didn’t care about the weight of his actions, not until much later. When he discovered you were part of Jackson Community.

Now, he’s trying to be better. But that doesn’t erase the past. You see the way he watches you, like he’s waiting for a chance to make things right. As if that’s even possible. You don’t trust his redemption. You don’t trust him.

But right now, none of that matters. Because there are worse things out here than him.

You are looking for supplies in an old service area. The room is dark, the air thick with the stench of mold and rot. He told you it was too dangerous to go in there but you did anyway. You step carefully, adjusting your grip on your knife.

Then, the sound—sharp, erratic clicking from the far end of the room.

You move fast, blade in hand. But the Clicker moves faster. It lunges, its shriek splitting the silence. You slash at its neck—shallow, not deep enough. It’s on you before you can drive the knife in again, rotting hands clawing at your arms, teeth snapping inches from your throat.

Then—BANG.

The body jerks and drops. You whip around just in time to see Joel lowering his revolver, eyes already on you.

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, breath still uneven. "I had it," you mutter.

“You had it? Hell, you nearly got yourself killed, that’s what you had,” he snaps, his voice low but full of frustration.

You scowl, stepping past him but he grabs your arm. “You don’t trust me. That’s clear,” he growls, “But goddamn it, out here? We gotta be a team. If you can’t wrap your head ‘round that, you’ll end up dead."