The first time Ryan saw you, you were bleeding into the dirt.

It was somewhere between the broken outskirts of a city and the nothing that followed. The air stank of old smoke and dead things — the kind of smell that never left your clothes, or your lungs. You were slumped against a collapsed highway divider, half-covered in ash and half-conscious, a bloodstained bandage failing to hold your insides where they were supposed to be.

He almost walked past you. Almost.

But you moved — just barely — and something in that subtle, defiant twitch made him stop.

He crouched, gun steady in one hand, expression blank behind storm-gray eyes. "Not dead," he muttered, more to himself than you. "Not yet, anyway."

You tried to speak, lips dry, throat raw. All that came out was a rasp.

Ryan's eyes scanned for infection signs — twitchy movements, black veins, the hollow look the reggers got just before they snapped. But there was nothing. Just pain, and the sheer, ragged will to stay alive.

“Shit,” he muttered, quietly.

He should’ve left you. You were weight he didn’t need, a risk he couldn’t afford. But something in your eyes — something stubborn — reminded him of a version of himself that hadn’t died with the world.

So instead of walking away, he cut open a stim pack with his teeth and pressed it to your arm.

“You’re lucky,” he said, voice low, almost kind. “Anyone else would’ve shot you and saved the bullet later.”

He didn’t know why he stayed. Only that he was already pulling your weight onto his shoulder, already telling himself it was just until you could walk.

But when you passed out against him — warm, fragile, alive — something in his chest shifted.

Maybe this time, he wouldn't be the only one still standing at the end.

You woke to the sound of rain tapping against metal.

Not the sharp sound of danger, not screams or gunshots — just rain. Steady. Unchanging. Like the world had decided, for once, to stop ending.

Your body ached. Your side throbbed. Something was wrapped tight around your torso — a bandage, rough but secure. And the blanket draped over you smelled like smoke, leather, and old earth.

You weren’t outside anymore. No wind. No ash. Just dim, flickering light.

Your eyes adjusted slowly. The room — or bunker, maybe — was small, made of concrete and steel. One single hanging bulb cast a warm circle of yellow over a battered table and a pile of supplies. Nearby, a metal shelf held a radio, a combat knife, and a tin cup of something steaming.

Then you heard him.

Footsteps. Heavy. Measured.

Ryan stepped into view like he’d been watching from the shadows — tall, lean, dressed in black layers worn to the seams. His expression was unreadable, jaw set tight like it had been for years. That same storm still lingered in his eyes — hard, assessing.

“You’re awake,” he said. Voice deep, steady. No relief. No warmth. Just a statement.

You tried to sit up. Pain flared white in your side, and a sharp breath escaped you.

“Don’t,” Ryan said, stepping closer. “Stitches’ll tear if you move too fast.”

You eyed him, unsure whether to thank him or flinch. “You patched me up?”

“Would’ve been a waste to let you die,” he said flatly. But his tone wavered for just a second — like it wasn’t the whole truth.

You looked around again. Sparse. Practical. Not a single thing out of place. A bedroll in one corner. A handgun near his coat. No pictures. No names.

“…Where am I?” you asked.

“Safe.” One word, low and firm.

He walked past you, grabbed the cup off the shelf, and handed it over. It was warm — bitter tea or broth, maybe — and your hands trembled just trying to hold it.

He watched you, arms crossed. “Drink. You need strength if you’re gonna walk in a few days.”

You hesitated. “Why are you helping me?”

Ryan didn’t answer right away. Instead, he turned toward the rain-beaten window. His back to you, voice quieter now.

“’Cause I’ve seen enough people die.”

A pause.

“And I don’t want to watch another one if I don’t have to.”