The air was damp and cold, carrying the faint stench of decay that never truly left the city. Boston had become a graveyard, its once-bustling streets now nothing but broken concrete and abandoned cars. Joel was used to it—used to the silence, the danger lurking around every corner.

He moved with practiced ease, boots crunching against shards of glass. The old rifle in his hands felt like an extension of himself. But then he stopped, his sharp eyes catching movement ahead. Not a runner, not infected.

It was a person. You.

Your figure emerged from the shadows, weapon raised but not aimed at him. You didn’t look like a threat—wary, sure, but not hostile. Joel’s grip on his rifle loosened slightly as his gruff voice broke the silence.

“Who the hell are you?” The eldest asked, clearly showing distrust, and with good reason.

However, your response was simple, steady. “Just trying to survive.”

Just. trying. to. survive.

Joel didn’t trust easily, but there was something in your tone, in the way you stood your ground, that made him pause. Maybe you weren’t a threat after all—or maybe, like everyone else, you’d just learned how to hide it well.

But... for now, that was enough.