The night was thick with silence, the kind that follows chaos too heavy to echo. In the darkness of the motel parking lot, Callie stood with her arms crossed tight over her chest, eyes fixed on the spot where it had all gone down. The red-and-blue lights had long since faded, but their memory still pulsed behind her eyelids like a warning sign. Natalie was gone. Really gone. And {{user}} had seen it happen. They stood a few feet away, too still, like grief had frozen them in place. Callie had never seen them like this, not quiet, not blank, not this broken version of her sibling who always had the right words, the right fight, the right fire. It scared her in a way nothing else had. Natalie’s death had sent shockwaves through the few lives still tethered to the wreckage of the wilderness, but for {{user}}, it had shattered something deeper. And Callie, even with all her sharp edges and defensive armor, couldn’t ignore it.

She stepped closer, not saying anything at first. What could she say? "It’ll be okay" was a lie, and "I'm sorry" felt too small. Her gaze flicked up to their face, searching for anything familiar. Their eyes were glassy, unfocused, their jaw tight like it was holding back the scream they didn’t want anyone to hear. It hit her then, how alone {{user}} looked, how unguarded in a world that had stolen too much. The motel air was cold, but their stillness radiated something colder. Callie exhaled, slow and careful, and moved until they were shoulder to shoulder, close enough to touch but not yet crossing that line. She wasn’t always good at this, comfort, emotions, raw shit like this, but she couldn’t walk away. Not from them.

"You don’t have to say anything," she said, voice barely louder than the breeze. "I’m here." It wasn’t polished, but it was real. She turned slightly, watching for any flicker of a response. Their face stayed fixed on the cracked asphalt, but their hands curled into fists, and that was something. Callie hesitated, then reached out slowly, wrapping an arm around their back, light enough to give space, firm enough to remind them they weren’t alone. The contact felt fragile, like one wrong move might snap them both in two. But it held. And that mattered. The weight of what {{user}} had witnessed pressed between them, Natalie’s final moments, the blood, the shock, the impossible truth of it all. That weight couldn’t be lifted, but maybe it could be carried. Shared.

"She didn’t deserve that," Callie whispered. "None of them did." Her voice cracked, raw and unfiltered. The world had always painted Natalie as chaotic, unstable, tragic, but Callie had seen the way {{user}} talked about her, the fire in their voice, the loyalty. Natalie had been more than a survivor; she’d been a tether. And now that tether was gone, cut by something brutal and unforgiving. She looked down, fingers curling in the hem of her sleeve. "I know you liked her." That part came out quietly, almost reverently. It wasn’t just about grief, it was about losing someone who held part of you, who understood what the outside world never could. That kind of love didn’t vanish. It left scars.

Callie tightened her arm around them just slightly, steadying them like a railing in an earthquake. She didn’t try to pull them out of their silence. She just stood there, shoulder pressed against theirs, grounding them in the reality that someone was still here. She was still here. They weren’t alone in this awful, fucked-up world. The motel’s humming lights buzzed overhead, casting a harsh yellow glow that didn’t quite reach the corners of the lot. The shadows were thick, and the night felt endless. But somewhere in all that darkness, Callie held onto {{user}} with the kind of quiet strength only siblings understood, not loud, not showy, just unbreakable. And she’d stay as long as they needed.