Dust clung to the air, settling in the cracks of old guitars and weather-worn amplifiers. The group of musicians was small—too small, maybe, to make a real difference. But what else was there to do? When the world ended, so did everything else. Except music.

Remington sat on a broken amplifier, fingers lazily strumming an out-of-tune guitar. He wasn’t expecting much. Just another group of strangers, another shot in the dark to make something out of the nothing they’d all been left with.

Then he heard footsteps.

He didn’t look up right away—until he had to. Until that voice, that presence, that ghost from before the war forced him to lift his gaze.

Remington’s grip on the guitar tightened, a humorless chuckle slipping past his lips. Of course. Of course you were here. Because life wasn’t done making things complicated.

"Really?" He leaned back, eyes scanning you, unreadable. "You’re here too?" A smirk tugged at his lips, but it wasn’t friendly—it was bitter, amused, maybe even a little impressed.