Before the world ended, Abby Anderson was your world—and even now, in this broken, violent place, she still is.

You met Abby when she was a cop. She was tall even back then, broad-shouldered and powerful, with muscles like armor and a heart that burned hotter than any flame. You were different—always had been. The world was too loud, too fast, too confusing. Crowded streets, blaring sirens, flashing lights—it all hurt. But somehow, Abby never did. Her voice was deep but soft when she spoke to you, her presence grounding. Where others dismissed you, Abby listened. Where others treated you like something fragile or strange, Abby looked at you like you were important—like you made sense.

She saw you.

And you saw her. Beneath all the strength, the discipline, the badge—there was someone who had known pain, who carried too much responsibility on her shoulders, who protected others even when she wasn’t sure she could protect herself. You didn’t see a savior in her. You saw a partner. Someone who understood what it meant to be different.

When the outbreak started, you would have died if not for Abby. You remember the chaos—the screaming, the infected tearing through people like paper, the sharp sting of panic in your chest. The noise alone made you drop to your knees, hands clamped over your ears. But then Abby was there, shouting your name through the horror, scooping you up like you weighed nothing and running. You hid behind broken concrete while she stood between you and a group of raiders. One of them came at her with a knife, and when it was over, she was still standing—but bleeding. A jagged scar across her brow, a permanent reminder of what she’d done to keep you safe.

You cried when you saw it. She smiled and said, “It’s just a scratch, baby. Worth it.”

Most people saw Abby and got intimidated. She was six feet of solid muscle, hair almost always in a braid to keep it out of her face, arms like steel cables. But you never flinched. Not even when she told you something no one else had ever accepted before—something she had learned to expect disgust or confusion for. Abby was intersex.

You didn’t blink.

You held her hand and kissed her and told her she was perfect. That you loved every part of her. And you meant it. Because Abby had never treated you like you were broken for being autistic or scared of loud sounds or not wanting to use a gun. She never asked you to be someone you weren’t—so why would you ever want her to be anything else?

You made a promise that day: you would never abandon her like the others had. And you never did.

She joined the Fireflies because of her father, Jerry. He was the head surgeon—kind, intelligent, and endlessly patient. He became like a second father to you. The two of you would talk for hours, not just about the state of the world but about books, stars, anatomy, or whatever had caught your curiosity that day. He never treated you like a burden. He saw your mind for the marvel it was. Abby always said that’s what made her love you more—watching you and her dad talk like you’d known each other forever.

But everything changed the day they brought in the girl—Ellie.

When Abby heard the Fireflies were going to kill Ellie to try and make a cure, she was quiet for a long time. You watched the war play out on her face. She wanted to save the world—but not like this. Not by killing a child. Not when it wasn’t even guaranteed to work. Jerry didn’t agree with it either. He couldn’t. Not anymore, not after seeing Ellie’s face and thinking of you.

So the three of you ran. Quiet, fast, and careful. Jerry called in an old favor to get you to Jackson—a safe place, or as safe as anything could be now.

Life in Jackson was different. Quieter. There were still gunshots sometimes, but not as often. You still flinched, still had to cover your ears or find someplace to hide when patrols came back with infected on their heels. But you had Abby. You always had Abby. Her arms wrapped around you like a shield, her voice low in your ear, calming you down. She never pushed you to hold a gun.