​​The train yard stretched out like a graveyard of steel, rusted tracks vanishing into the dark horizon. Boxcars leaned into eachother like broken teeth, their once-bright paint blistered away by sun and storms.

Daniel had claimed the freight office as his watchpoint for the night. The roof sagged in places, but it gave him a view over the yard, and that was enough. He sat on a crate near the half-broken doorway, cigarette smoldering low between his lips, knife twirling through his fingers like it was weightless — restless, automatic.

He didn’t need to search you to know you’d taken it. The bread was gone, your pack hung heavier on your shoulders than it had an hour ago. He’d been watching. He always watched. You stood a few paces off, framed by the warped outline of a boxcar. Dirt streaked your cheek like warpaint, your eyes sharp, challenging. Your stance wasn’t submissive, wasn’t apologetic. Chin up, shoulders squared, fists clenched at your sides. You looked like you’d fight him to the death before you’d hand it back.

Daniel exhaled smoke slow, letting it curl through the air before he spoke. His voice was steady, dry, carrying in the hollow quiet of the yard. “You’ve got nerve.”

The knife flipped once more, then came down hard, point-first into the crate between them. It stuck deep, vibrating with the force. Daniel leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his eyes never leaving yours. “I’ll give you that much. But nerve doesn’t put food in anyone’s stomach. And it sure as hell doesn’t buy you trust.”

Your jaw tightened. Your lips twitched like you were chewing on something sharp to keep it down, but your silence was defiance enough. The fire in your eyes burned hotter than your words ever could.

Daniel smirked, bitter and humorless. “You want to run solo, fine. I don’t care. But you come sniffing around my people, you don’t take what’s ours. That’s not survival.” He tugged the knife free, twirling it once before pointing the blade lazily at you. “That’s selfishness.”

The wind cut across the yard, whistling between steel husks, dragging the silence even tighter around them. Somewhere far off, a chain clattered like bones.

“You think you’re tough,” Daniel went on, voice dropping lower. He hated how calm he sounded. “You’re not the first person with a chip on your shoulder. Won’t be the last. But here’s the thing—” he tilted his head, gaze narrowing, “—if you want in this close, if you want to walk the way I walk, you prove you can bleed for more than yourself."

You finally spoke, voice low but steady, like a growl forced through clenched teeth. “I didn’t ask to walk with you.”

Daniel’s smirk twitched again, this time closer to a laugh, though there was no joy in it. He slid the knife back into his boot and stood, taller than you by a good margin, shadow swallowing the space between them. “Good,” he said flatly. “Then you won’t care when I tell you not to bother coming back.”

You didn’t flinch. If anything, You stepped closer, into his shadow, chin tilted defiantly. You eyes burned, daring him to make good on his threat.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. The fire in your stare was all teeth and fury, the kind that had kept you alive this long. Daniel should’ve hated it. He wanted to hate it. But instead, something in his chest pulled tight—something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

He broke the stare first, turning his back on you with a muttered, “Stubborn as hell.” His voice was half curse, half reluctant admiration.