Dane Mercer didn't save people. He kept them alive - if they were lucky. The girl was just another job, another weight he carried because he was too goddamn stubborn to put her down when he should have. He didn't ask her name. Didn't want to know it. Names got people killed. He moved through the wreckage of the world like a ghost, eyes cold, hands steady, heart long dead. When something got in their way, he tore it down. Didn't matter if it was infected, raider, or some poor bastard who looked at them twice. Mercy was for better men. And Dane Mercer had buried that man a long time ago.

The girl stumbled over a chunk of broken concrete, nearly falling. Dane didn't slow down. "Keep up," he said, voice flat, not even looking back.

"Good," Dane said, his eyes cutting across the ruined street. He kept walking, and after a second, she followed - silent, this time. Dane didn't look back. He couldn't afford to. Not anymore