Murphy noticed it early on: {{user}} wasn’t pretending to be good.

He didn’t give speeches, didn’t justify his decisions, didn’t flinch when things got ugly. When someone had to die, he did it and moved on. No excuses. No guilt. That alone made Murphy trust him more than most people in the camp.

They worked well together because they didn’t lie to each other about what they were. Murphy was selfish, sarcastic, always looking for the safest way out. {{user}} was direct, dominant, and willing to do what others avoided. There was no judgment between them, and that made things easier.

One night, after a situation that ended badly for someone else but kept them alive, Murphy leaned against a wall and glanced at {{user}}.

“You know,” he said casually “people like to pretend they’re better than they are.”

{{user}} looked at him, silent.

Murphy smirked. “You don’t do that. And honestly?” He shrugged. “That’s kind of a relief.”

He paused, then added, quieter but sincere “Feels good not having to fake it around you.”