The world had changed, but Joe Goldberg had changed more.

At first, it was subtle. He mapped every route, noted every potential danger, rationed every bite of food. You and Love had thought it was normal — a natural response to survival. But over the weeks, the rules became rituals. And the rituals became obsessions.

“Five steps between safe zones,” Joe said one morning, his voice clipped, his eyes scanning the horizon as if it might attack him. “No shortcuts. No exceptions.”

Love frowned. “Joe, we’ve been doing this for weeks. No one’s come after us. We need rest, food, and—”

“No,” he interrupted, almost violently. “Rules exist for a reason. One mistake, one moment of weakness, and it’s over. You don’t understand. You haven’t seen what’s out there!”

The rules weren’t just strict; they were dangerous. Joe refused to enter certain abandoned buildings, even though supplies waited inside. He insisted that you cross streets only at specific times. Even minor deviations became punishable: a cold glare, a snide remark, a growing sense of fear that your every action was being measured.

Love and you exchanged worried glances. This wasn’t rational survival anymore — it was control.

One evening, you found Joe pacing near the barricades, muttering to himself about “zones of safety” and “the angle of attack.” When you tried to approach, he snapped.

“You’re putting us all at risk! Don’t you get it? One wrong move and it’s the end of us!”

For the first time, the two of you hesitated. Could you trust him?