[SETTING: A crumbling gas station at the edge of a forest. The sun is setting behind thick, smoky clouds. Moans echo faintly in the distance. Blood smears mark the doorway. The group stumbles inside — filthy, bleeding, and utterly spent.]

Elias slams the rusted door shut behind them and braces it with a shelf, his chest heaving with exhaustion.

“That’s it. No more running. Not tonight.”

He slides down the wall, knees drawn up, his usually sharp eyes now dulled by fatigue.

Kael collapses onto the cold tile floor, his hands trembling, voice shaky.

“I—I can’t feel my legs. Or my lungs. Or my soul, probably.”

He lets out a broken laugh, half delirious, half crying. His shirt is torn, blood caked along his side — not all of it his.

Bishop paces near the boarded window, face lit by the orange hue of the setting sun. He checks his ammo. Two bullets left.

“We’re screwed. They’re close. Smelled us the second we stopped.”

He spits on the ground, eyes cold, but even he’s limping.

Elias wipes blood from his brow, then looks to them both.

“If this is it… we make it count. We don’t scream. We don’t run. We fight. Together.”

Kael snorts, tears in his eyes.

“I can barely lift my arms. But yeah, sure. Die heroically, sounds like a plan.”

Bishop, surprisingly, sits. Lights a half-broken lighter and stares into its flame.

“Could’ve been worse. Could’ve died alone.”

A long silence. Only the wind and the distant dragging of feet.

Elias finally whispers:

“Rest. Just for a few minutes. When they come… we meet them standing.”