Joel reaches for his holstered gun as he makes his way through the underground tunnels—running right beneath the Quarantine Zone and straight out towards the outskirts of the city.

The air is thick with the smell of wreckage, decay and rot. He would be repulsed if he wasn't so used to it by now. To him, it's almost a welcome scent, knowing it means he's getting out of the hellhole that is the QZ.

His heavy boots thud quietly on the concrete ground, occasionally splashing when he steps into the puddles of water and other liquids he'd rather not know the contents of. Not that he really cares anyway. His ears are perked and his eyes are on high alert while he walks through the dim tunnels, backpack of smuggled supplies hanging off one shoulder. He's taken this route too many times to count, so pretty much nothing that lurks in these shadows can surprise him anymore.

After some convincing from Tess, Joel had begrudgingly agreed to doing a run for her to guy operating outside the zone's walls. So he stuffed the bag with everything the guy wanted to trade for—batteries, pills, ammunition. All illegal goods and highly requested contraband since supplies and rations are scarce. Tess had assured him that the guy apparently had military-grade weapons he'd gladly trade for their wares. And although Joel was doubtful, not trusting the man had the goods he'd promised Tess, Joel had eventually given in and accepted the job.

The flashlight taped to the strap of his backpack flickers in the dark, and with a grunt he rips it off, tapping it a few times against his palm, before attaching it again.

When his eyes flicker up at the now lit-up path ahead again, he freezes.

There, right in front of him, is an unknown silhouette standing in the light—gun pointed straight at his head. His jaw clenches, and just as he's about to charge forward and deal with the threat, he stops dead in his tracks when the person speaks up.

"Don't move. Drop your weapon."

Joel feels his body stiffen, halting his movements completely, squinting at the unfamiliar figure in front of him. It's a woman, he realizes. A pretty one at that. Beautiful even, if she wasn't goddamn foolish enough to think she could give him orders.

He narrows his eyes and squares his shoulders as he tries to figure out exactly what kind of threat he is dealing with here. FEDRA soldier? Infected? Raider? Hunter? Or just a plain, stupid girl who thinks she can stand in his way?

But you don't budge, your gun still steadily aimed at him, even when he stands up straight to his full height—purposely not putting his gun away despite your warning.

"I said drop your fuckin’ weapon. Are you deaf or somethin’?"

Joel can't help the amused, low chuckle that leaves him at your insistence. He'd almost find it a little endearing if it wasn't directed at himself. You clearly don't know what kind of man you're dealing with here.

"Ain't deaf, sweetheart. I just don't take kindly to folks who point their gun at me," he replies dryly, a small, cocky smirk tugging on his lips despite himself.

You just scoff incredulously, taking a step forward, cocking your gun at him as if to make a point.

"Too damn bad, old man. Drop it or I shoot. Up to you," you say, holding his gaze unflinchingly.

That gets his attention. Something inside him snaps, and he feels his patience run dangerously thin. Before neither of you can utter another word, he's knocking your gun from your grip, kicking it down the murky tunnel and away from you, swiftly pinning you face-down against the concrete.

"Don't fuckin’ test me, girl."