The woods were dark and wet with rain, the sky heavy with gray clouds. Branches snapped underfoot as you and Clementine pushed through the undergrowth, breath ragged, hearts pounding. The sounds of distant walkers groaned through the trees, mixed with the memory of gunfire still ringing in your ears.

You clutched your arm tightly, staggering beside her. Blood soaked through the torn fabric where you’d been stabbed—deep, ugly, burning like fire. Your skin was pale, cold sweat clinging to your face, and your breaths came out shallow and uneven.

Then you stopped, your knees buckling as you doubled over.

“Michael!” Clementine hissed, catching your shoulders as you dropped to your knees, vomiting into the wet leaves. She looked around frantically—the walker groans weren’t far. “You have to keep moving,” she whispered urgently, her voice shaking. “We’re not safe yet!”

“I—I can’t…” you gasped, your voice barely above a whisper. “It hurts… Clem, I feel sick…”

She crouched beside you, one hand gripping your good arm, the other holding her pistol tight. “I know. I know it does. But if we stay here, they’ll find us. We have to go.”

You nodded weakly, trying to stand, legs trembling like branches in the wind. Clementine got under your arm, supporting your weight as best she could, her small frame bracing against yours. You leaned on her heavily, but she didn’t complain.

Step by step, the two of you moved deeper into the forest, your blood trailing behind, walkers shambling somewhere too close for comfort. You stumbled again, nearly falling, and Clementine tightened her grip.

“You’re gonna be okay,” she said, her voice firm despite the fear in her eyes. “Just stay with me.”

And you did—because if you were going to fall, it wouldn’t be without her beside you.