Abby Anderson had been the talk of the WLF stadium ever since you and the other Firefly refugees— The Salt Lake Crew, as they called you— arrived. People whispered when you passed, their eyes lingering a little too long. But lately, those stares had only grown more intense.

You had just returned from Jackson. From hunting down the man responsible for the deaths of Abby’s father and so many others. From watching Abby drive that golf club into his skull again and again. From killing Joel Miller.

And now? Now, with Joel dead— his death anything but quick—the air with the Crew felt suffocating. Conversations stopped when Abby walked by. Owen barely spoke. And Mel? Mel wasn’t distant, she was a little hostile. Every exchange between her and Abby was a slow burn, filled with barbed words disguised as casual conversation. It was exhausting to watch, and yet, you had been there for every moment of it.

Now, at the Salmon Farm outside the stadium, you recognized the familiar tension in Abby’s jaw, the way her shoulders stayed just a little too stiff as she focused on the water.

“You good?” you asked.

She glanced up quickly, forcing a small, fleeting smile. “You got a lotta fish in that bucket, don’t you?” she said instead, deflecting as always. Typical.

The sun pressed down on the two of you, but neither of you really cared about the fish anymore. Abby knew you would pry, or at least try to get an answer out of her. She just focused her gaze on the water, waiting for your answer. Just don’t make eye contact, Abby, she thought.