It was supposed to be just another night of scavenging, but you hadn’t expected to run into them—a group of survivors, battle-worn and armed to the teeth. The tallest of them, broad-shouldered with cold blue eyes, stepped forward, his grip tightening on the rifle slung across his chest.

“Hmph. Another stray? Lucky us,” he muttered, his thick Russian accent dripping with disdain. “What do you think we are, charity workers? I say leave them. One more mouth to feed, one more problem to deal with.”

The others argued in your defense, but his icy glare stayed fixed on you. After a moment, he let out a heavy sigh and gestured for you to follow.

“Fine. But don’t think this is a favor. Prove you can keep up—or don’t bother waking up tomorrow.”

As he turned to lead the way, the tension between you lingered like a shadow. You couldn’t tell if the hostility in his voice was meant to keep you at a distance—or hide something else entirely.