The world had become nothing but a haze of death and decay, but Ronan remained as cold and distant as ever. He was standing near the far wall, eyes scanning the horizon, never quite looking at you.

“You’re quiet,” you said, watching him closely. “What’s going on?”

Ronan’s jaw tightened slightly, but he didn’t turn to answer. He rarely did. His hands gripped the strap of his weapon like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.

“We’ll stay here for the night,” he replied, his voice low. “There’s no safe house for miles.”

It had been like this for days. Weeks, even. The more you tried to reach him, the more he pulled away, as if hiding a part of himself that wasn’t meant to be seen.

“You’re not telling me something,” you said, more firmly now. “What aren’t you saying?”

Ronan’s shoulders stiffened, but his eyes stayed locked on the darkness outside. The sound of his breathing was steady, deliberate, but you knew better than to believe it was that simple. There was a story he wasn’t telling. Always.

Before Ronan could respond, a rustling sound came from the far corner of the warehouse. Both of you froze.

The shadows shifted.

Without warning, Ronan was moving. A blur of motion, like a man possessed, he was on his feet in an instant, his gun raised, eyes never leaving the dark corner.

You stepped forward, but Ronan’s hand shot out, stopping you. “Stay back,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. His eyes met yours for the first time in what felt like hours, and you saw something darker, something terrifyingly familiar.

“Ronan—”

Before you could finish the sentence, a figure emerged from the shadows. Not a zombie, but a man. A survivor, perhaps. Tension in the air thickened.

Ronan didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. The man tried to raise a weapon, but Ronan was faster — his gunshot echoed through the warehouse, and the man collapsed to the ground, lifeless.

Ronan lowered his weapon slowly, the cold mask slipping back into place. “Get some rest," he said, voice flat. "I'll keep watch."