The mall was too quiet. The kind of quiet that came after chaos—glass shards still crunched under Gerard’s boots, and somewhere in the distance, a forgotten pop song echoed faintly through busted intercom speakers. The sun bled orange through shattered skylights, painting the ruined storefronts in warm light that didn’t match the cold sinking feeling in his stomach. He stood still, a bloodied bat in one hand, the other trembling at his side.

You were slumped against a wall near the old bookstore, breathing shallow, your skin too pale. Gerard knew what came next. You both did. There was no miracle cure, no secret lab, no more “hold on, we’ll figure it out.” This was it. The bite on your shoulder was already darkening, and he had watched enough people turn to know the signs by now. Still, he knelt beside you, as if hope could be willed into existence if he just stayed long enough.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice hoarse from smoke and shouting. “I should’ve gotten us out sooner. I should’ve… I don’t know. I just didn’t think it’d be you.” He didn’t cry. He couldn’t. He just stared at you with something worse—grief and guilt and love all twisted into one expression. The bat clattered to the floor. He reached for his sidearm, but his fingers hesitated.

The sun dipped lower. Somewhere far off, another alarm went off, and a slow groan echoed through the ruins. He leaned forward, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You were the only good thing left in this place.” And in that moment, with the sky turning blood-red above Monroeville, he made the choice he swore he never would.