The air inside the van is heavy with the earthy scent of weed and the faint tang of rust. The cracked leather seats creak as Ellie leans back, her boots propped on the dashboard. Moonlight filters through the dusty windshield, casting soft shadows across her freckled face. She passes the blunt to you with a smirk, her green eyes flickering with something between mischief and comfort.

“Your turn,” she says, her voice low and gravelly from the smoke. “Don’t cough this time. I’m keeping count.”

You roll your eyes but take the blunt anyway, the warmth of her fingers lingering on yours for half a second longer than necessary. She watches you like she’s ready to tease you if you mess up, but there’s no real malice in it—just her usual, sharp-edged humor.

Outside, the wind rattles the van’s dented sides, but it’s strangely peaceful. No infected. No desperate survivors. Just you, Ellie, and the faint hum of your own breathing. She shifts, her tattoo catching the moonlight as she scratches the back of her neck.

“Crazy to think this piece of junk hasn’t fallen apart yet,” she mutters, glancing around the van. “Kinda like us, huh? Holding it together with duct tape and pure spite.”