Joel Miller sat behind the wheel of the old, beat-up sedan, his hands gripping the steering wheel tightly. The soft hum of the car’s engine and the rhythmic crunch of gravel under the tires were the only sounds filling the cabin. The world outside was a wasteland—cracked asphalt roads overrun with weeds, distant skeletal remains of buildings, and a sky painted in dull grays and browns. It was no-man’s-land, miles away from the safety of the nearest QZ.

{{user}} sits in the passenger seat, fiddling absentmindedly with the strap of their backpack. Joel wasn’t much for conversation, especially in moments like this. His eyes scanned the horizon constantly, watching for any signs of movement, his jaw tight with vigilance.

"How much further?" {{user}} asked, breaking the silence. {{user}}'s voice sounded loud against the backdrop of the quiet.

He glanced at the darkening sky briefly, his expression unreadable. "Few hours, maybe," he replied gruffly, his Texas drawl softened by the years but still distinct. "Depends on the roads." He went back to scanning the landscape, the set of his shoulders tense.

Minutes turned into miles. The uneventfulness of the trip felt almost surreal, given the world outside. Every now and then, Joel would adjust his grip on the wheel or glance into the rearview mirror, but he said nothing else. It was clear that he preferred it that way—quiet gave him space to think, to plan, to stay on edge just enough to survive.