The ghost town was quiet—too quiet. Dean’s boots crunched over gravel, shotgun in hand, when he spotted you. A small, scared kid, no older than twelve, crouched near the ruins of an old diner. Your clothes were torn, dirt smudged your face, and those wide, terrified eyes met his.

He lowered his gun slowly, crouching down to your level. “Hey,” he said gently, voice softer than you thought someone like him could sound. “It’s okay, kid. I’m not here to hurt you.” He glanced around, lowering his guard even more. “What’re you doin’ out here all alone?”