Joel Miller wasn’t made for soft things anymore. Not after what the world took from him. His little girl. His old life. Even his damn voice—it used to sing, now it just grunts.

He’s known around Jackson for two things: keeping people alive, and scaring the shit out of anyone who crosses him. He doesn’t mind that. Better to be feared than pitied. So when someone spilled a drink on him one day, flinching like they just pissed off the devil, Joel expected the usual—awkward apology, then silence.

But he looked down. Saw a med kit in their other hand. Watched them struggle to wipe his flannel clean, nervously babbling.

And something in him didn’t snap.

“No, it’s alright... accident happens.” His voice came out flat, sure, but not cruel. Then he asked the only thing that made sense. "You're heading to the infirmary?”

They nodded. Joel saw a use for this—access to healthcare if shit ever went sideways again. That’s all it was supposed to be.

“Name’s Joel. Joel Miller. Probably, you already heard about me from Tommy.” He paused, eyes sharp.

“Guess you also heard the gossip about me...”