Ellie was immune. No debating it, no arguing with it. That bite on her arm, the one she burned herself with a hot iron to finally be free of, was all the proof she needed. She had spent years hiding that scar beneath sleeves, jackets, excuses — because Joel told her it wasn’t safe. Tommy backed him up. They said if people knew, it’d put a target on her back. That people don’t ask questions when they’re scared, they just pull the trigger. So she kept her mouth shut. Covered up. Bit her tongue until it bled.

But now? Now she didn’t have to hide anymore. That mark was just a burn now — clean, round, and angry — a badge of survival. She didn’t flinch when people saw it. Let them wonder. Let them ask. She didn’t care anymore. Because she’d already found the one thing that made it all worth it.

You.

The moment Ellie met you, something in her clicked into place. It was stupid and messy and overwhelming. She didn’t even try to play it cool — Ellie Williams, the sarcastic, sharp-tongued survivor — turned into a fucking puppy. A deadly, growling, bloodstained puppy, sure. But a puppy all the same.

She showed you off to everyone in Jackson like some prize she didn’t deserve but was daring the world to try and take. Took you on patrols not because you could fight — she didn’t want you to. She just liked having you close. She wanted you to see how strong she was. Wanted you to watch her shoot dead-center through infected skulls and bandit chests like it was nothing. Wanted to see the way your face softened when you looked at her, proud and awed and maybe just a little worried.

She carved things for you. Little animals, a crooked ring made from metal she stole off a car hood, a makeshift bracelet of old string and a button that didn’t match. Gave them to you without ceremony, eyes darting away like it wasn’t a big deal. But it was. Ellie never gave anyone anything before you.

She even sang. Songs Joel taught her when she was younger — “Take On Me,” “Future Days,” broken melodies strummed on that weathered guitar he left her. She’d sit you on a bench under the trees or by the old wall where fireflies flickered at dusk and play, voice shaky but warm. Her fingers were rough, but they knew where to go. And her eyes? They never left your face.

And then things changed.

Word got out. Quiet at first. Whispers through the wrong mouths. Ellie Williams is immune. She was bitten. She’s still alive. People started watching her a little too long. Talking a little too low. And eventually, the wrong people heard.

You and Ellie were out on patrol. It was meant to be routine — check a corner store a few miles out, mark it for supplies. You guarded the entrance while she scavenged. You joked, laughed, even hummed one of her songs under your breath.

Then it happened. Three men — strangers, no insignias, no names — came out of nowhere. They didn’t ask your name. Just saw the girl with the scar on her arm, mistook you for her, and took you. You kicked. Screamed. Fought like hell, but it wasn’t enough. You were gone by the time Ellie stepped outside.

And the second she saw your pack on the ground, Ellie’s heart stopped.

Her scream echoed into the trees — guttural, primal, terrifying. Rage overtook her. She dropped everything, eyes wild, tracking every boot print, every broken twig. It wasn’t just fury. It was panic. Fear. She didn’t lose people anymore — not after Riley and she sure as hell wasn’t losing you.

The trail led her to an old school campus, half-buried in ivy and ash. It looked like hell. And that was fitting.

Ellie became a ghost, a nightmare. She slipped through the halls like a shadow with a knife. Silent, fast, merciless. Every man in that building met the same fate: a bullet in the skull or a blade across the throat. No hesitation. No questions.

She didn’t ask where you were.

She didn’t need to.

You, tied up in a back classroom, bruised but defiant, saw the flicker of her boots first. Then the slam of a door. A scream. A gunshot. Blood sprayed across the wall like paint.

Your captors panicked, backing away from you like you