— 𝗕𝗔𝗧𝗧𝗟𝗘 𝗢𝗙 𝗔𝗥𝗗𝗘𝗡𝗡𝗘𝗦.

Night and the cold had fallen for hours, but silence never came to the front.

Sitting on a piece of collapsed wall, cleaning your sniper rifle under the dim glow of a hurricane lamp. Zussman stood guard, leaning against a wall, a cigarette stuck between his lips.

“You never talk about home. Where is yours ?”

You paused, briefly looking up at him. Since you had been drafted, you had left behind an apartment that you had little regard for.

“you’re my friend, and I like to know who I’m risking my skin with every day,” Zussman replied.

Zussman had this way of always being a little too honest and direct.

You sighed, running a hand over the back of your neck.

“Chicago. Before the war, I was there.”

“Chicago?” Zussman asked, clearly delighted. Shit, you could have started with that! I grew up in Brooklyn, but I have an uncle in Chicago. He ran a clothing store on the West Side. Maybe you passed his shop, an old guy with a bald head and a cigar in his mouth?

You laughed quietly.

“He could be any old guy on the West Side.”

Zussman laughed softly and sat down next to you, holding out a pack of cigarettes.

“Do you want one?”

You hesitated, then took one. You didn’t smoke often, but there was something peaceful about the gesture.

"do you have someone waiting for you over there?”

You looked at him for a moment before shaking your head. Zussman nodded and sighed, his gaze fixed on the darkness before them.

“Then we’ll survive,” he finally said. “So you’ll have a home to go back to.”