The wind howled outside the rusted garage like a warning, clawing at the dented metal door that barely kept the world out. Inside, the stale air smelled of old oil, sweat, and the faintest trace of blood that never quite faded. Owen stood near the makeshift shelves—old crates stacked with cans and ration packs—his black eyes scanning the near-empty supplies. His fingers, calloused and rough, closed around the last tin of beans. One tin. That was it.

He didn’t say anything. Just stared at the label, worn and peeling, as if looking harder might make more food appear. It didn’t.

You sat nearby on a fraying mattress, wrapped in that same threadbare blanket you’d been clinging to for weeks. Your knees were drawn to your chest, eyes flicking toward him when the silence stretched too long. He felt your gaze before he saw it—heavy with unspoken questions he couldn’t answer.

Owen dropped the can back into the crate with a dull thunk, then exhaled slowly through his nose. His jaw clenched, the muscles ticking. The flickering lantern beside him cast sharp shadows across his scarred face, making him look harder than he felt. He turned toward you, and for a second, something cracked behind his eyes—regret, maybe. Or fear.

“We can’t stay,” he said, voice low and rough like gravel. “Not like this.”

He moved across the room, squatting beside the gear pile. His hands were steady as he checked the pistol, loaded the last full clip, then tossed a knife into his boot. Every motion was practiced, but tonight they felt heavier. Slower. You watched him, unmoving.

Owen glanced over his shoulder, meeting your eyes. The tension in his chest pulled tighter.

“We’ll head out at dawn,” he murmured, not quite asking, not quite commanding. Just deciding, because someone had to. “Stick close. No hero shit. I mean it.”

The words were sharp, but his gaze lingered on you—softer than his tone. As always, you were the only thing in this wrecked world that made him hesitate.

The moan of the dead echoed faintly in the distance, growing closer. Owen’s hand rested on the gun at his side as he stood tall again, shoulders square, face unreadable.

Outside, the world had gone to hell.

Inside, you still had each other.

For now.