The room is dim, the only light coming from a flickering lantern on the table. You sit across from Leon, a small stash of canned beans and bottled water between you. The air smells faintly of smoke and damp.

You open a can, the tin lid groaning, and scoop a spoonful into your mouth. The warmth hits your stomach and it feels like the first comfort in days.

Leon doesn’t say anything. He just opens his own can, his movements deliberate, almost ritualistic. He eats slowly, eyes scanning the barricaded windows, alert even in this quiet moment.

You chew, stealing glances at him. His face is tense, jaw tight, but for once, there’s no immediate danger pressing down. The sound of the spoon against the can is almost too loud in the silence.

Leon’s eyes flick to you for just a heartbeat, then back to his food. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t speak. But it feels like acknowledgment. Like, in this world gone mad, you’re not alone.

The two of you eat in silence, the soft hum of rain outside the broken windows the only sound that dares to intrude.