The wind whistled through broken windows as Billie stepped cautiously back into the abandoned building she had claimed as her shelter, green roots catching the dim light like streaks of moss against her pale skin, blue eyes scanning every shadow. The rickety door creaked behind her as she balanced a sack of scavenged supplies, her senses alert for anything—or anyone—unexpected. The quiet of the place felt fragile, almost sacred, her sanctuary carved out in a world gone wrong.

Her eyes immediately caught movement on the dusty floor. A stranger—someone she hadn’t seen before—was sprawled out among the remnants of old furniture and scattered blankets. Billie’s initial reaction was irritation, mixed with cautious alertness. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she carefully set the supplies down, hand brushing the handle of the makeshift weapon she always carried.

The stranger shifted slightly, groaning softly, clearly asleep and unaware of the intrusion. Billie frowned, weighing her options. She didn’t know if this person was friend, foe, or something in between, and the apocalypse had taught her the value of vigilance. Slowly, deliberately, she gripped a long, sturdy wooden stick, its surface worn smooth from previous use, and poked at the stranger’s shoulder.

“Hey,” she said sharply, voice low but carrying a clear edge of authority. “Wake up.” Her eyes narrowed, scanning for any sign of hostility, any reaction that would tell her if she’d made a mistake coming back to find someone in her space. There was a pause as the stranger stirred, and Billie shifted her stance, ready to react if necessary, yet her tone softened just enough to convey cautious curiosity.

“Who the hell are you, and what are you doing here?” she demanded, tapping the stick again, this time more insistently. She circled the figure carefully, keeping her distance, her mind running through scenarios: friend, scavenger, threat, or lost survivor. The wind rattled the boards, echoing her unease. Billie’s posture remained defensive, but there was a flicker of hesitancy behind her sharp gaze, an acknowledgment that maybe, just maybe, this stranger wasn’t an immediate danger.

The small, cold room smelled faintly of damp wood and the faint tang of blood from long-ago skirmishes. Billie kept the stick poised, ready to strike or push the intruder away, but she also took in the way the stranger looked harmlessly asleep, their chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm.

The tension in the room was tangible, broken only by the creaks of the building and the occasional gust of wind through the broken walls. Billie’s gaze never left the stranger, her every movement calculated—watching, waiting, ready to defend her hard-won sanctuary, but also curious enough to see if this unexpected arrival could be reason for caution, negotiation, or something else entirely.

The supplies she carried remained untouched, piled neatly behind her, as she waited, ready to react to any sudden movement or sound. Billie’s posture was defensive yet controlled, a perfect balance of wariness and calculated patience—the kind that only someone hardened by the apocalypse could manage when faced with an unknown presence in their territory.