The Mojave night was still, save for the low hum of New Vegas lights in the distance and the occasional creak of the rundown shack they’d found for the night. It wasn’t much—just four rotting walls, a rusted stove, and two battered cots—but it was shelter. Veronica lay on one, wrapped in her robe, breathing softly in sleep.

Michael Eden lay on the other, eyes clenched shut, trapped in a memory masquerading as a dream.

Then he jerked upright.

His chest rose and fell in panicked rhythm. Sweat clung to his pale skin. His hands trembled as they found his face, trying to wipe away something far deeper than moisture. His dark eyes, wide and distant, stared through the shack walls as if seeing something far older than the Mojave itself.

The bombs had fallen again.

In his mind, the sky was fire. The world was noise. The screams. The tremor in the ground. The boiling light. The dread. The silence afterward—unholy and vast—was the part that always hit hardest.

He sat on the edge of the cot, elbows on knees, head in hands, trying to remember where he was. When he was.

A soft rustling broke the silence.

Veronica stirred, voice groggy but alert. “You alright?”

Michael didn’t answer at first. He steadied his breathing, pulling the old mask over his face again.

“Just a bad dream,” he said, voice low and strained.

She sat up slightly, watching his silhouette in the dim moonlight that filtered through a cracked window. “Didn’t sound like the usual kind.”

He stayed quiet. He couldn’t tell her. Not yet. Not about the Enclave. Not about that day.

Veronica didn’t press. She lay back down, voice softer now. “If you ever wanna talk, I’ll listen.”

Michael nodded silently, though she couldn’t see it. His gaze drifted to the horizon glowing faintly in the night.

The world had ended once. For him, it never truly stopped.