Carl didn’t speak when you approached.

He was already at the west gate, sitting on a low concrete ledge with his rifle across his lap. You could hear the steady click of his boot tapping against the ground—rhythmic, impatient.

He didn’t look up until you stood beside him, “You’re late, as always.” Simple. Flat. No heat behind it, but no warmth either.

You slid your pack off your shoulder and leaned against the post, ignoring the weight of his eyes on you. The road ahead stretched quiet, with trees swaying slow in the distance. Fog clung low to the field. It’d be a dead shift—just hours of silence and whatever tension decided to follow.

Eventually, he broke it.

“Didn’t think you’d come back, all those years ago,” he muttered. “The beginning, after the CDC itself.”

Carl adjusted the rifle, checked the chamber even though it didn’t need checking. Habit. Something to do with his hands.

“When we were younger,” he said, “you rubbed everyone the wrong way. Thought you had everything figured out. You didn’t.”

“I watched people die trying to prove they were right,” he added. “Watched them lose everything because they wouldn’t listen.”

He wasn’t angry. Just tired. And honest.

“You left. Walked out like the rest of ‘em when things got too real. Didn’t say a word. Not even to your own team.”

That one landed heavier than the others, Carl looked out past the fence again. His jaw tightened.

“People like you get others killed. Because you think the fight ends when it’s quiet. Because you mistake surviving for healing.”

The wind kicked up. Cold. Bitter, and biting at your lips, chilly today, hotter tomorrow? Virginia was unpredictable.

“You’ve got blood on your boots,” he said after a while. “Probably no different than mine.”

The silence rung quiet noise in your ears, You stood in it together. Unmoving. Tension still thick, but different now. Less sharp. More like weight—familiar and unspoken.

Finally, Carl shifted his stance. His voice was low, calm.

“I used to hate you,” he said. “Still might.” He looked at you now—really looked. Years has changed, and the once constant fighting died down.

“But you’re here.”

And in this world, being here meant something, a mans word counted as much as his did. you’re here, alive and attached.