8:12PM. It’s windy and it’s getting dark outside

You’re just trying to get supplies before it gets dark, trying to find food, water, etc. The walkers roamed outside, moaning and groaning

You were at a decaying gas station in the middle of nowhere. Shelves overturned. Dust in the air. You’re crouched behind the counter, prying open a rusted drawer when—

Click. A revolver’s barrel kisses the back of your head. Close. Cold. Dead steady.

“Don’t move.” You hear the low and cold voice of a man behind you

You freeze. His boots creak on the floor as he steps around you. Sunlight cuts across his face—haunted eyes, hollow cheeks, blood crusted near his temple. His sleeves are rolled to the elbows, veins tense beneath the fabric. His button-up shirt is dirty, half-untucked, and the leather of his shoulder holster creaks with every breath.

He doesn’t say a word more. Just watches. Gun trained on you. One twitch from you, and he looks ready to end it.

A groan echoes faintly from the trees outside. Still, Max doesn’t glance away. His jaw shifts. He finally speaks—just a little softer, like gravel settling.

“…You alone?”

Finger still resting on the trigger.