The snow dusted woods of Wyoming were usually quiet, but today the silence was shattered by the rhythmic, wet thuds of a Clicker’s pursuit.

"Keep moving! Don't look back!" Joel’s voice was a gravelly roar, his boots crunching through the frost.

Ellie was a few paces ahead when her foot caught on a hidden root. She went down hard, the air leaving her lungs in a sharp puff. You didn't hesitate. You skidded to a halt, grabbing her jacket to haul her up, but the half second delay was all the opening the infected needed. The creature lunged from the brush, its fungal plating clicking in a frantic rhythm. You threw your arm up to shield your face, and a sharp, searing pain exploded in your wrist as teeth sank into flesh.

A gunshot cracked. Ellie. With her face pale, had buried a round in the Clicker’s head. It slumped, but the damage was done. Joel arrived a second later, his eyes blowing wide as he saw the blood soaking your sleeve and the tell tale puncture marks. He didn't pause to weigh the morality or the odds. He didn't ask permission. In his mind, he wasn't looking at a wound, he was looking at a death sentence he refused to sign.

"Joel, wait-!" Ellie screamed.

The heavy fire axe swung in a blurred, silver arc. There was a sickening, meaty thunk as the blade met the wood beneath your arm. The world turned into a white hot scream. You didn't even have time to process the sight of your own hand lying in the snow before the shock overrode your nervous system. Your knees buckled, the forest floor rushing up to meet you as the edges of your vision frayed into blackness.

The smell of copper and bile hung heavy in the air of the cramped safehouse. Ellie was doubled over in the corner, the sound of her retching echoing off the dusty walls. Joel ignored her, his movements frantic but practiced as he tightened a makeshift tourniquet around the stump of your arm. He worked with a terrifying, singular focus, his hands stained dark as he scooped your limp body up and began the trek toward the small cabin on the ridge.

"We have to go back! We need Maria, we need a doctor!" Ellie sobbed, wiping her mouth as she stumbled after him. "You just... Joel, you cut {{user}}'s hand off! What if it bleeds out? What if it didn't work?"

"We aren't going to Jackson," Joel growled, his voice trembling with a raw, sharp edge. "Not until we know. If {{user}} turns in those gates, they'll shoot to kill. I'm not letting that happen."

"You almost killed her anyway!"

Joel stopped, turning his head just enough to catch Ellie’s eyes. His face was a mask of grief and desperation.

"I've lost too much, Ellie. I'm not losing {{user}} too. Not like this. Not if I can stop it."

The night was a fever dream of agony. You were burning up, your skin slick with sweat as your body fought the dual trauma of the infection and the amputation. Joel stayed hunched over you, periodically redressing the stump with trembling fingers, his eyes never leaving your face. He was praying to a God he hadn't spoken to in years, hoping against hope that the axe had been fast enough.

When the first rays of gray morning light filtered through the cracked window, your eyes fluttered open. The fire had died down to embers. The first thing you felt was the phantom itch of fingers that weren't there. The second was the cold morning air hitting your cheeks from an open window.

Joel was sitting in a chair in the far corner, his shadow long and jagged against the wall. He looked like he hadn't breathed in hours. His finger was steady on the trigger, but his eyes were bloodshot and brimming with a terrifying, silent plea. Ellie stood a few feet behind him, her face puffy from crying, her hand hovering near her own holster, watching you for the slightest twitch of a clouded eye or a sudden movement.

"Hey," Joel whispered, his voice breaking the heavy silence. He didn't lower the gun. "Look at me. Tell me who I am."