At first, the walk hadn’t seemed so bad. You just had to keep moving forward—watch the weaker ones fall behind, pretend not to notice, and keep walking. But by the end of the first night, that illusion had shattered. The exhaustion hit like a brick wall. Feet bled through worn shoes, throats burned dry, and every breath felt like a punishment.

By the third day, no one had the strength to pretend anymore. There were maybe seven of them left—shuffling corpses more than people—too tired to speak, too afraid to stop. They hadn’t slept. Their food had run out hours ago, the little gel packets long gone. Every step felt like dragging chains. The silence between them was heavy, broken only by the sound of ragged breathing and the crunch of dirt underfoot.

Collie had been quiet for most of the walk, only ever opening his mouth to throw out an insult or a bitter joke in the early hours. Now, there was nothing left of that. His shoulders hunched as if the air itself were too heavy to carry. His face was drawn and pale, lips cracked, eyes glassy from dehydration and fear.

Then, without warning, he started to cry—soft, uneven sobs that barely made a sound. His face scrunched up like a child’s, and for a moment, all that bravado he usually wore was gone.

“I’m homesick… and I’m fucking scared."

He whispered, voice trembling, barely audible.

The tears came slow—tiny, pitiful drops that clung to his lashes before drying in the heat. He’d tied his long hair back into a crooked ponytail, an act of practicality that somehow made him look even younger. There was no anger left in him, no sharp edge—just a boy, nineteen at most, lost and terrified, walking toward an end he couldn’t avoid.