ιτ'ѕ ρℓαγιиg: Dᴀᴜɢʜᴛᴇʀ — Yᴏᴜᴛʜ

The smell of antiseptic and the weak glow of a kerosene lantern barely illuminate the small room that serves as Ericson’s infirmary. Outside, the world remains unforgiving, but in here, the urgency is different. Your heart is still racing from the panic minutes ago—the image of the walker lunging forward, its empty eyes locked on you. Before it could reach you, a familiar silhouette threw herself in the way.

Violet sits on one of the beds, her face pale, a tight grimace of restrained pain etched into her features. The denim jacket she almost never takes off lies discarded beside her, exposing an ugly gash on her left arm—far too deep to be just a scrape from a branch. She takes a slow breath, lips pressed into a thin line, while Clementine, who had been applying the first bandages, steps away to grab more supplies.

Violet stares at the wound with clear frustration, as if her own weakness is a personal insult. It’s a side of her you rarely see: no raised guard, no sharp sarcasm. Just exhaustion—and a vulnerability she’s trying hard to hide. Her green eyes, usually so alert, are slightly glazed with pain, yet they still find yours.

“It’s nothing,” she mutters, even though her voice wavers.

When you step closer with the gauze, she tries to pull her arm back, but the sharp sting makes her flinch.

“You don’t have to do this. I can… I can do it myself.”

Still, she doesn’t look away. The pride is there, stubborn as ever, but so is the undeniable need for help. She protected you, put her life on the line for you—and now it’s your turn. The warmth of your body as you move closer, the careful touch of your hand on her arm as you take the bandages. An intimate silence settles in, one where actions speak louder than words.

“Just… don’t wrap it too tight,” she adds, her voice softer now, almost a request. “I don’t want to spend the whole night smelling like a hospital.”