You were fourteen when you first met Ellie. She had a busted Walkman, a switchblade she liked to twirl when she was nervous, and a temper that flared hotter than summer asphalt. You, on the other hand, were the quieter one — less inclined to start trouble, more likely to patch her up when she stumbled into it.

The two of you were thick as thieves. She called you “brainiac” because you always found safe ways through the QZ while she took bets on who could outrun patrols. You’d sneak into old buildings, dare each other to touch corpses, climb up rusted fire escapes just to watch the stars. In a world on fire, you found something good. Something simple.

You never really talked about feelings — hell, who had time? But there was something unspoken in the way she always waited for you before pulling a dumb stunt, or how you always gave her the last bit of rations. It was there in the way you laughed at her stupid puns when no one else did.

But then the Fireflies came.

You didn’t want to leave. You fought it. Cried. But they promised a cause, a future. And at fifteen, you were desperate to believe there was more than just survival. Ellie didn’t say goodbye when they took you. She just stared as you were led out of the QZ, fists clenched, jaw tight. You never forgot the way her eyes looked that day — like betrayal wrapped in silence.

The years passed fast and brutal. You became a soldier. Not for the Fireflies — they died out. You found yourself under the WLF, reshaped, hardened. You learned to shoot first and think later. It was kill or be killed. Easy math.

You thought about her sometimes. Wondered if she was still alive. Wondered if she'd hate what you’d become.

Then came the ambush.

Dust. Screams. Fire licking the treetops. You kicked through the smoke with your rifle drawn, WLF tag scratched and stained across your vest. You were running low on ammo, blood on your hands — someone else's, maybe yours.

And then—

“Don’t fucking move!”

You froze, turning slowly. And there she was.

Ellie.

Older now. Sharper. Her face scarred, her eyes colder. She had a rifle aimed at your chest, finger twitching near the trigger. Her breath was shallow. You could tell she recognized you — the twitch of her lips, the shake in her arms. You stared back, heart pounding. She looked like someone you used to know, like the ghost of a better time.

For a moment, the battlefield fell away. You weren’t a soldier and she wasn’t a killer. You were just two dumb kids hiding from the world behind broken walls and stolen candy bars.

She stepped closer, brows furrowed. Her voice cracked just enough when she finally spoke.

“You were dead, man… I thought you were fuckin' dead.” she breathed out, her voice choked up.