Welcome

“I just—need to get my stuff from the room,” I said instead. “Then maybe.”

He nodded, but the crease between his brows didn’t ease. “Okay. I’ll walk you back.”

I started to protest — but the word no caught somewhere in my chest and never made it out. The truth was, I didn’t want to go back there alone. Not after what I’d seen.

So I nodded.

We cut across the quad, sunlight finally spilling over the red brick buildings. It should’ve felt warm, safe — but it didn’t. The light looked thin, washed out. Like even the sun didn’t want to linger here.

Randy was talking — something about film theory, his professor’s obsession with symbolism — but his voice felt far away. Every few seconds, I looked over my shoulder. Nothing but students rushing past, a couple of bikes clattering over pavement, the faint hum of the campus radio somewhere nearby.

Normal.

Totally normal.

Except it wasn’t.

When we reached my dorm, I hesitated at the door. My hand hovered over the handle, the metal cold against my fingertips.

“You sure you wanna go in?” Randy asked quietly.

I nodded again. “It’s fine.”

It wasn’t.

The key stuck in the lock for half a second before turning, like the door didn’t want to open. The air inside was colder than I remembered. Still. Like the room had been holding its breath too.

I stepped inside, every sound amplified — the soft creak of the hinge, the thud of my bag hitting the floor, Randy’s footsteps just behind me.

Nothing looked different. The blinds drawn, the lamp buzzing faintly.

But the smell—

The faintest trace of something that didn’t belong.

Cologne.

Not Randy’s.

Something sharp. Heavy. The kind that lingered after someone walked out of a room.

Randy noticed it too. “You leave a window open?”

“No.” My voice cracked on the word.

He frowned, stepping toward the bed. “Hey—”

And then he stopped.

So did I.

Because there, lying neatly on top of my pillow again, was another Polaroid.

Same angle. Same lighting.

Except this time—

I wasn’t asleep.

I was sitting up.

Staring straight at the camera.

Eyes wide open.

And I didn’t remember that picture being taken.

My breath hitched, the sound too loud in the stillness.

Randy picked up the photo, turning it toward the light. “What the hell—”

I snatched it from him before he could finish. My fingers shook as I flipped it over.

Something was written on the back in that same jagged handwriting.

“You look better when you’re awake.”

Randy froze, his usual quick-fire sarcasm gone.

His mouth opened, closed, then opened again — but nothing came out.

He looked at me, really looked, like he was finally seeing what I’d been feeling all along. The tremor in my hands. The dark circles under my eyes. The way I kept glancing over my shoulder like the walls might move.

“Okay,” he said finally, voice low, serious. “Tell me what the hell’s going on.”

I shook my head, gripping the photo so tight the edge cut into my palm. “I don’t know. I swear I don’t know. He was here last night. He was in here, Randy.”

His eyes flicked to the door, to the locked window, then back to me. “What do you mean, ‘in here’?”

“I mean he took this while I was sleeping!” My voice cracked. I didn’t care. “He’s been in here more than once. He leaves notes. Photos. He—he took my bracelet.”

Randy’s jaw clenched. “The one your dad gave you?”

I nodded.

He swore under his breath, pacing once before turning back to me. “You should’ve told me sooner.”

I laughed — sharp, hollow. “Yeah? And what was I supposed to say, Randy? That someone’s breaking into my room to watch me sleep? That they slide notes under my door in the middle of the night? You would’ve thought I was losing it!”

“I wouldn’t,” he said, quieter this time. “Not about this.”

The air between us felt heavier now.

He crossed the room, checking the window first. Locked. Then the closet. Empty.

He even dropped to his knees and checked under the bed.

Nothing.

When he stood again, he looked rattled. “You’re moving in with me. I’m not asking.”

“Randy—”

“I mean it.” His voice left no room for argument. “You’re not staying here another night. Whoever this freak is, he’s not getting anywhere near you again.”

I wanted to argue, to tell him I wasn’t running, that I wasn’t going to let some faceless psycho control me.

But when I looked around the room — my room — I couldn’t bring myself to lie.

Because I couldn’t stay here.

Not after that photo.

Not after knowing how close he’d been.

“Okay,” I whispered.

Randy’s shoulders eased a fraction. He brushed a hand through his hair and let out a breath. “Good. Pack what you need. We’ll figure the rest out later.”

He moved to grab my bag, but the moment he bent down—

Something crackled under his shoe.

We both froze.

He lifted his foot.

Another Polaroid.

This one face-down.

He slowly crouched, picked it up, and flipped it over.

It wasn’t me this time.

It was us.

From just seconds ago.

Me standing in the middle of the room, Randy at my side, his arm half-extended toward me.

The angle was from the doorway.

Taken from inside.

Randy’s face went white. “That’s—”

“Impossible,” I whispered.

But the fresh chemical smell of Polaroid film hung faintly in the air, sharp and undeniable.

And from somewhere down the hall—

A soft, familiar laugh echoed.

Low. Mocking.

Male.

Randy dropped the photo, moving toward the door, but I caught his wrist.

“Don’t,” I breathed. “That’s what he wants.”

He looked back at me, torn between instinct and logic, fear and fury.

Outside, the laughter faded, replaced by silence.

But the damage was already done.

He was here.

He’d been watching.

And now he knew we knew.

Randy slowly backed away from the door, every muscle tense. “Get your stuff,” he said. “We’re leaving. Now.”

I didn’t argue.

Not this time.

Because for the first time since this started—

It didn’t feel like a game anymore.

Across the yard, Rick knelt beside a patch of beans, a faint smile on his face as he watched Carl talking with Patrick and Lizzie near the fence. Farming Rick was something I never thought I’d see. A few months ago, he was a man held together by rage and grief. Now, he was… something else. Someone else.

Maybe we all were.

I felt him before I saw him—Daryl, his presence like a shadow at my back. He crouched down beside me without a word, pulling weeds like it was second nature.

“You missed one,” he muttered, nodding toward a stubborn stalk.

I shot him a look, but there was no heat behind it. “Thanks, farmer Dixon. You want a medal for spotting it?”

The corner of his mouth twitched—his version of a smile. “Nah. Just don’t want you slacking off.”

It was easy, these little jabs. Easier than talking about the night in the janitor’s closet. The kiss that still burned in the back of my mind every time he was close. We hadn’t said a word about it—not once. But sometimes, when his hand brushed mine or when his eyes lingered too long, I wondered if he thought about it too.

Before I could say more, a shout went up near the fence.

Rick was already on his feet, running toward Carl. I followed Daryl right beside me, his crossbow slung over his shoulder.

The walkers were pressing against the fence again. Dozens of them. Their moans were low and hungry, a sound that never stopped chilling me to the bone no matter how long I’d been hearing it.

“Damn it,” Daryl muttered, moving ahead of me to help reinforce the supports as they groaned under the weight.

This was the part that never changed—the dead always pushing, always wanting. No matter how much we built, how safe we felt, it was never enough.

Later that day, when the sun dipped low, Daryl gathered a group for a supply run—Glenn, Sasha, Tyreese, Bob, Zach, and me. He didn’t have to ask if I was coming. He just looked at me, and I nodded.

The Big Spot! The store wasn’t far, but the world had a way of turning short trips into nightmares.

And it did.

The yard buzzed with nervous energy as we loaded up the truck. Runs were routine now, but they never felt safe—not really. One wrong move, one second too slow, and you didn’t come back.

Daryl checked the crossbow slung over his shoulder and scanned the group—Glenn, Sasha, Tyreese, Bob, Zach, and me.

“All right,” he said, his voice carrying that steady calm that always settled the rest of us. “Same deal as always. Keep quiet, grab what we need, and don’t get greedy.”

“Copy that,” Sasha muttered, adjusting her rifle.

I tossed my pack into the truck bed and glanced at Daryl. “How greedy counts as greedy?”

He shot me a look that was all rough edges and hidden amusement. “Don’t start.”

I smirked but didn’t push it. He’d been different since the closet—warmer sometimes, sharper others. Like he was always on the edge of saying something but never did. Maybe I was too.

We hit the road. Zach sat in the back, grinning like this was a road trip instead of a supply run in the middle of the end of the world.

“So,” he said, leaning forward between the seats, “anyone wanna take bets on what I find first? Big screen TV? Flat-screen maybe?”

Sasha snorted. “Yeah, hook that up to what? The walkers’ entertainment system?”

He laughed like it was the funniest thing he’d heard all week. Part of me envied that—still being able to laugh like this world hadn’t chewed us up and spit us out.

The Big Spot! looked quiet from the outside. Too quiet.

Daryl signaled for us to spread out once we were inside. Shelves still lined the aisles, dusty but full. It was the closest thing to a goldmine we’d seen in months.

“Grab what you can carry,” he said, voice low. “Water, canned goods, batteries. And keep your ears open.”

I stuck close to Sasha as we swept down an aisle. Bob drifted near the liquor shelves like a moth to a flame, fingers trailing along the glass.

Zach reappeared at my shoulder with a grin. “Find anything good?”

“Not yet,” I said, keeping my voice even. He seemed sweet, but sweet got people killed.

The first sound was faint—a groan, low and wet. My stomach turned cold.

“Daryl,” I called softly.

He looked up, following my gaze.

The ceiling.

It was moving.

Something shuffled above us, slow and heavy. Then another sound joined it—the groan of metal under strain.

“Oh, shit,” Bob muttered.

The ceiling gave way with a scream of tearing steel.

And then it all came down.

A helicopter—rotting, rusted—crashed through the roof in an explosion of dust and debris. Walkers rained down with it, bodies bursting against the floor like sacks of meat. The sound was deafening—gunfire, groans, screams.

“Go!” Daryl roared.

I fired at the first walker that lunged at me, the recoil jarring my shoulder. Another came from the left. Sasha dropped it. Bob screamed—pinned under a fallen shelf. Liquor bottles shattered around him.

“Help me!” he yelled.

I was already there, shoving glass aside, blood slick on my hands. Daryl appeared on the other side, muscles straining as he heaved the shelf upright just enough for Bob to crawl free.

“Move!” Daryl barked, hauling me up by the arm.

We spun—and froze.

Zach.

He was on the ground, a walker straddling him, teeth sinking into his throat. He thrashed once, twice, then went still.

“Dammit!” Sasha shouted, firing a shot through the walker’s skull.

Daryl’s hand closed around my wrist, yanking me toward the exit. The ceiling was still groaning overhead, more cracks spidering out like veins.

We ran.

Out the back door. Into the daylight. Hearts pounding like drums.

Behind us, the Big Spot! groaned one last time and collapsed in on itself.

No one spoke on the ride back.

Zach’s blood was still on my boots.

And all I could think about was Beth—her soft voice, her bright eyes, the way she looked at him like maybe there was something good left in this world.

It was still poison in this town. In every headline. Every hushed whisper on campus when they thought I wasn’t listening. Her brother was the killer. The killer.

If I called the cops, that’s all they’d see.

Not a victim.

A Loomis.

I slammed the phone back into the cradle before the dial tone could betray me.

The note burned in my hand, the words seared into the back of my eyelids every time I blinked. I just wanted to see you dream.

My stomach turned. What kind of person writes that? What kind of person wants that?

I staggered to the dresser and yanked the drawer open, pulling out the first thing I could find—a pair of scissors. Pathetic, maybe, but it was sharp. Cold in my hand. A false sense of safety.

The silence pressed harder. I swear I could hear my own blood moving, rushing too fast, too loud. I strained to catch something else—a breath that wasn’t mine. A shift of weight in the floorboards. Anything.

Nothing.

And then—

The phone rang.

I jumped so hard the scissors clattered to the floor.

One ring. Two. Three.

I just stared at it, my throat closing. Every instinct screamed don’t answer it.

Four.

Five.

The machine clicked, my own voice spilling into the room, cheerful and oblivious:

“Hey, it’s me. Leave a message.”

The beep sliced through me like a blade.

And then—his voice.

Calm. Slow. Almost tender.

| “You looked beautiful last night.”

My knees gave out. I sank to the floor, shaking so hard I could barely breathe.

| “You don’t know how long I watched you… how hard it was not to touch you.”

I slapped my hand over my mouth, biting down on a sob until I tasted blood.

| “Next time, baby… maybe I won’t be so good.”

The line clicked dead.

The silence after was worse than the voice.

I crawled forward on trembling hands, snatched the phone, and ripped the cord out of the wall so hard it nearly took the socket with it.

But it didn’t matter.

He was already here once.

And now he knew I was awake.

My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. I stared at the ripped cord dangling from the phone like it could somehow undo what I just heard.

But it didn’t matter. The line was dead.

Just like Billy.

I pressed my back against the wall, dragging the scissors closer until the metal bit into my palm. Pathetic defense. He’d laugh if he saw me clutching them like a child with a toy.

He’s been here.

Not just tonight—before. Watching. Waiting.

The photo burned behind my eyes—the tilt of my head, the curve of my arm under the blanket. Peaceful. Vulnerable. I didn’t even remember sleeping like that. Which meant he’d been close enough to see details. Close enough to breathe the same air.

My stomach turned to ice when the memory slammed into me. Two days ago.

His voice through the doorway, smooth and lazy, like we were friends. Like we had something normal between us.

“You know I’ve got a key, right?”

I’d laughed then—because what else was I supposed to do? Pretend I wasn’t terrified? Pretend my pulse didn’t stutter every time he looked at me too long?

He told me to run. Chased me down the hall like it was a game. And then he just… stopped. Smiling like a cat that didn’t feel like killing the mouse—yet.

And now this.

This wasn’t a joke.

I fumbled on my desk for something—anything—until my fingers found a crumpled Post-it and a pen. My hand shook so hard the letters slanted downhill as I scrawled the words:

“Change the lock. Tomorrow.”

I slapped it against the lamp where I couldn’t ignore it. Like that would save me. Like a piece of yellow paper would keep him out.

The room felt smaller. The corners darker. My skin prickled with the certainty that he was still out there, maybe even pressed against the door, listening. Smiling.

Another sound cracked through the silence.

Tap.

Soft. Against the glass.

My head snapped toward the window.

The curtains swayed from the heat kicking on, nothing else. Still—my breath locked in my throat as I edged forward, scissors raised like they meant something.

I yanked the curtain back.

Empty.

Just the quad below, washed pale under the yellow glow of the security light.

I let out a shaky laugh that died in my throat when my eyes caught the glass.

Something smeared across the pane.

Not dirt. Not rain.

A word.

One finger dragged through the fog my breath left earlier:

“AWAKE?”

I stumbled back so fast I hit the dresser, the scissors slipping from my hand and clattering against the wood.

My chest heaved. My brain screamed at me to run, to get out, but my legs wouldn’t move.

Because if he could do that without me hearing a thing—

If he could touch the glass while I was standing just feet away—

The door.

My eyes darted to it, cold horror crawling up my spine.

The key.

He told me he had a key.

And now I wasn’t sure if the lock had even clicked.

The room was too quiet.

I stared at the door, every muscle in my body locked tight. My ears strained for anything—the shuffle of feet, a whisper of breath, the rattle of the handle. Nothing.

But that didn’t mean he wasn’t there.

I forced myself to move, one step, then another, the carpet swallowing my footsteps. My fingers brushed the dresser, the cool wood grounding me for a split second before slipping away.

The scissors lay on the floor where I dropped them. I crouched down, grabbed them, and held them like a lifeline.

Another step. My throat burned with each shallow breath.

The door loomed ahead. The thin strip of light from the hallway cut across the floor, fractured by the uneven edge of the doorframe. Too bright. Too exposed.

I crouched low, watching for shadows under the crack. Nothing.

Finally, I reached out with my free hand, my fingertips barely grazing the cold metal knob.

Locked. Please be locked.

I turned it slowly.

It moved.

Not much, just a twitch, but enough to send my stomach plunging.

The lock wasn’t thrown.

I slapped my palm against it, twisting the tiny dial until it clicked into place. The sound was deafening in the silence.

My back hit the door and I slid down to the floor, scissors clenched so tight the handle dug into my palm. My pulse roared in my ears.

I tried to tell myself I was safe now. That a simple lock could stop someone like him.

But then I remembered his voice, calm and smug, echoing through the doorway two nights ago:

“You know I’ve got a key, right?”

A fresh wave of panic surged through me, prickling along my skin. I scrambled back from the door, dragging myself toward the bed like that extra two feet of space would save me.

My eyes darted to the window again. The word was still there, a pale streak in the glass: AWAKE?

My stomach turned. He’d been close enough to write that while I was in the room. While I thought I was alone.

Something snapped inside me. I wasn’t going to sit here and wait for him to come through the door.

I crawled toward the phone out of habit, even though I knew the cord was shredded. My fingers brushed the broken wire, cold and useless.

No 911. No Randy. No one.

Just me.

And him.

The thought barely formed when the knob rattled.

Once.

Slow.

Deliberate.

I froze, every breath locked in my chest.

The metal clicked again, a whisper of movement like someone testing how much give the lock had.

Then his voice, soft through the door, almost playful:

"Not asleep yet, huh?"

I clapped a hand over my mouth, choking on a scream.

The handle turned harder this time, pressing against the lock with a dull thud. Not forcing, not yet—just reminding me how useless that little piece of metal really was.

"Come on, sweetheart." His tone was light, teasing, like this was all some game he knew he’d win. "You don’t have to be scared."

I pressed myself against the bed frame, scissors trembling in my fist.

Another push on the door. Harder this time. The wood shuddered against the frame, and I felt it in my bones.

"You’re making this harder than it has to be."

My vision blurred with tears, hot and sharp, but I didn’t make a sound. Couldn’t.

The pressure eased. The knob stilled.

Silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

And then—

A soft knock. Three taps.

"Sweet dreams."

His footsteps faded down the hall, unhurried, like he knew I wasn’t going anywhere.

When the quiet finally settled, I collapsed against the floor, scissors slipping from my hand with a hollow clatter.

But I didn’t move. I couldn’t.

Because no matter how far away his footsteps sounded, I knew the truth:

He had a key.

Joel gave a tight nod. No hesitation. No fear. Just that old steel rising in his chest.

“I’ll kill every last one of them.”

Yn

I didn’t even try to stop him.

Because the truth was—I wanted the same thing. I wasn’t losing Ellie. We didn’t go through all of this just for her to die on a damn operating table.

We moved fast, shadows in the fluorescent light, hearts pounding but hands steady. Joel took point, but I wasn’t far behind. I kept my rifle close, eyes sharp.

Two guards at the corner.

Bang. Bang.

Joel dropped one clean, and I surged forward before the second could raise his weapon. Slammed the butt of my rifle into his temple and watched him crumble.

We didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. The grief, the rage—it was fuel now.

We took the stairs. Quieter that way. My heart was racing so loud I could barely hear Joel’s footsteps behind me.

We found the pediatric wing, white and sterile. The sign said “Authorized Personnel Only.”

Fuck that.

Joel didn’t even pause. He shoved the door open—

And there she was.

Joel

The room was cold and humming with machines.

Ellie lay unconscious on the table, IVs snaking from her arms, a sterile cloth pulled up to her collarbone. The surgeon had a scalpel in hand, his back to the door, and two nurses turned in surprise.

Joel didn’t hesitate.

“Unhook her,” he growled.

The surgeon froze. “You can’t. If you take her out now, she’ll die. We’re doing this to save—”

Joel raised the gun.

“I said, unhook her.”

The surgeon stepped toward him.

Joel pulled the trigger.

Blood sprayed the tiles. One of the nurses screamed.

“Unhook her,” he said again, voice like stone.

This time, they listened.

Yn

I burst into the room right behind Joel just in time to see the surgeon collapse, a red bloom on his scrubs. I swallowed the bile rising in my throat. No time for guilt. No time for anything.

Ellie.

I rushed to her side while Joel grabbed a nearby gurney and yanked it toward us.

“We have to move, now,” I said, unhooking the IVs from her arms as gently as I could. “They’ll have heard that.”

He nodded once, grabbing her beneath the knees while I got her shoulders. She was so limp. So small.

My stomach twisted.

We ran.

Alarms blared behind us, footsteps closing in.

Joel led the way through the emergency stairwell, Ellie in his arms like she weighed nothing. I covered our backs, shooting out the lights above us as we went, anything to slow them down.

But we weren’t gonna make it to the exit.

There were too many.

Joel

By the time they reached the parking garage, Joel was soaked in sweat and Ellie’s blood.

They were surrounded.

A dozen Fireflies. Guns drawn. Flashlights in their faces.

“Put her down!” someone barked.

Joel tightened his grip.

But then—

Bang.

Marleen stepped forward. Her gun lowered. Her eyes were tired.

“You can’t save her,” she said. “Even if you get out of here, what then? She dies for nothing?”

Joel didn’t respond.

He just stared.

Then he lowered Ellie into the back seat of a nearby car. Y/N slid into the front. Hands trembling.

And when the moment came—when it was her life or theirs—

Joel made the choice.

Yn

I held Ellie’s hand in the back seat, watching her chest rise and fall.

Still breathing.

Alive.

Joel was quiet the whole drive. I didn’t ask what he did. I didn’t need to. The blood on his hands said enough.

She stirred as we neared the edge of Salt Lake.

“Wh—what happened?” she mumbled.

Joel looked back through the mirror, forcing a smile.

“Fireflies… they had others like you. They ran some tests. Turns out… you’re not the only one. You’re free now.”

I stayed silent.

Because the lie felt like a betrayal.

But the truth?

It would’ve destroyed her.

Joel

They didn’t speak much after leaving the city.

Joel drove as long as the tank would allow. When the truck finally coughed its last breath somewhere along an empty stretch of highway, he didn’t curse or even sigh. Just stepped out, adjusted the rifle on his back, and opened the door for Ellie.

“We walk from here.”

She didn’t ask questions. Just nodded, slid out of the truck, and fell into step beside him.

Y/N brought up the rear. Always watching, always quiet.

The mountains in the distance stretched long and pale beneath the morning sun, green returning to the land after a long, bitter winter. Spring was blooming — but it didn’t feel like a new beginning.

It felt like the end of something.

They passed cracked signs for towns that no longer existed. Billboards bleached by twenty years of wind and rain. Joel’s legs ached. His back throbbed. But he kept going, eyes forward, heart heavy.

He had her.

But he’d never be the same again.

Y/N

The silence between us felt heavier than any infected horde we’d ever faced.

We hadn’t talked about what happened at the hospital. Not in the truck. Not on foot. Not even while we set up camp that first night under a rusted freeway bridge.

I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

The surgeon.

The lie.

Ellie’s face when Joel told her she wasn’t special anymore.

She hadn’t said a word to me since that conversation. Not out of anger. Just… quiet. Like something inside her had dulled.

I wanted to say something. Anything.

But what could I say?

That I was proud of Joel?

That I would’ve done the same thing?

That I had done the same thing?

I kept walking.

The air smelled like wildflowers. The sun was warm on my skin. But all I could feel was the weight of what we’d taken from her.

Joel

They were less than five miles from Jackson when they found the old trailhead.

Joel recognized it from before the outbreak — a family hiking path that led through the hills and down into the basin where the dam stood. Tommy’s community would be just on the other side.

They stopped for a moment, catching their breath at the edge of a bluff. Joel leaned on his knees, glancing over at Ellie as she kicked a rock off the path.

“You know,” he said, “I’ve been thinking…”

She didn’t look up.

He hesitated, choosing his words with care.

“You’d’ve liked Sarah. She was… she was a lot like you. Smart. Funny. Kind.”

Ellie’s head tilted slightly, but she didn’t speak.

Joel swallowed the lump in his throat.

“You would’ve gotten along. I think you two would’ve really liked each other.”

Silence. For a long moment.

Then finally, Ellie spoke.

Yn

“I had someone once,” she said. “Back in Boston. Her name was Riley. We got bit… same night. She turned. I didn’t.”

I looked over at her, my heart tightening.

“I keep thinking about her,” Ellie said softly. “About Tess. About Sam. Henry. Marlene.”

Joel’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing.

She turned to face him.

“Swear to me. Swear that everything you said about the Fireflies is true.”

The world held its breath.

Joel looked her in the eye. Steady. Calm. Lying so well it almost sounded like the truth.

“I swear.”

Ellie stared at him. Her face unreadable. Then she turned to me.

“And you?”

I felt my chest tighten, my stomach twist.

But I nodded.

“I swear.”

Another pause.

Then, softly, Ellie whispered:

Ellie… changed. Not in a way you could always see, but you could feel it in the quiet. She laughed less. Slept even less. Something in her had hardened after that night with David, and no matter how close I sat beside her, there were pieces of her I couldn’t reach—not yet.

But she still cracked jokes when the silence got too loud. Still leaned into Joel when he told her stories. Still curled into me on the coldest nights like she was fifteen again and the world hadn’t taken so much from her.

And then… the snow melted.

It happened slowly, like the earth was waking up. Bit by bit, the white thinned, the gray sky shifted, and the first sliver of green pushed through the frost.

By the time we reached the edge of Utah, the air was warmer. Softer. Cleaner.

Now, spring bloomed around us in quiet pastels—buds on trees, fields kissed with gold and green. Salt Lake City shimmered in the distance, a broken skeleton of what it once was. But it was where the Fireflies were supposed to be. Where this journey was meant to end.

We were walking along an overgrown freeway, the sun just starting to dip low behind the rusted out remains of cars. Joel walked beside Ellie, the two of them tossing conversation back and forth—him telling some old story about teaching Sarah how to play the guitar, Ellie making smartass comments every few minutes just to poke at him.

I stayed a few paces behind, watching them. Smiling to myself.

We’d come so far. Lost so much. Changed in ways I didn’t even fully understand yet.

But we were here.

And we were still together.

Salt Lake shimmered in the distance like a promise.

The highway ramp sloped down into the city, cracked and overgrown, but still solid enough for us to walk. Joel led the way, his boots steady on the pavement. Ellie was close beside me, her eyes scanning the empty streets, tense but quiet. We didn’t speak much — the silence stretched between us like the road itself.

Salt Lake City was a ghost town, but it felt alive in its own way. We passed rusted cars half-buried in weeds, boarded-up storefronts, and piles of rubble. The air smelled like spring — damp earth and fresh grass fighting through the concrete cracks.

We turned off the highway and moved into what had once been a bus depot. The buses sat rusted and silent, their metal frames twisted by time and weather. Joel climbed onto one of the broken seats, scanning ahead.

Ellie wandered near the edge of the depot, frozen suddenly.

“Ellie?” I called.

She didn’t answer at first, just moved closer to the shattered wall.

Beyond the crumbled brick, through the overgrown field, stood a giraffe.

A real, living giraffe.

Its long neck reached up to the tree branches, plucking leaves with delicate motions. A few others grazed nearby, calm and majestic in the spring sunshine.

Ellie stepped forward slowly, hand outstretched. The giraffe bent its head toward her, its tongue flicking gently against her palm.

She laughed softly, the sound like a spark in the quiet world.

Joel’s eyes met mine, a flicker of something unspoken passing between us — relief, wonder, maybe a hint of hope.

We lingered there, just watching.

Eventually, the giraffes moved on, disappearing into the trees.

Joel nudged Ellie gently. “Time to go.”

We pressed on, walking toward an old military medical camp that lay ahead on the outskirts of the city.

The camp was deserted, tents sagging, equipment rusted and forgotten. It looked like a snapshot from the early days — a desperate attempt to save whoever they could before everything fell apart.

Ellie picked through a box of old bandages. I found a medical journal, filled with faded notes and dates from twenty years ago.

“They tried,” I said softly.

Joel shook his head. “Not enough.”

As we moved deeper into the camp, shadows flickered just beyond the tents.

Suddenly, a smoke bomb rolled into our path.

“Down!” Joel shouted, pulling us both down just as a cloud of choking gray smoke filled the air.

I coughed, trying to clear my vision as footsteps closed in fast.

Before I could reach for my gun, a heavy hand slammed into my back, sending me crashing to the ground.

Ellie screamed somewhere behind me.

Joel’s voice cut through the haze. “Ellie!”

Darkness swallowed me whole.

Everything was muffled at first.

Voices echoed like they were underwater. Boots scraping concrete. Metal doors creaking. A distant beep… beep… beep that kept time with my heartbeat.

My head pounded.

I blinked hard against the harsh white light above me. Cold sheets. Sterile air. An IV in my arm.

Where the hell…?

I sat up fast, groaning at the stab of pain in my shoulder and the burn behind my eyes. “Joel?”

No answer.

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, heart racing, and stood. The room was small—clean, too clean. White walls. Medical equipment humming. A door with a narrow window.

I moved to it quickly, just in time to see Marlene walking down the hallway.

She saw me and stopped. Opened the door without a word.

“You’re awake,” she said calmly, but her eyes were guarded.

“Where are they?” I demanded. “Where’s Joel? Where’s Ellie?”

“They’re safe,” she said.

“That’s not an answer.”

She hesitated, then nodded once. “Follow me.”

I didn’t waste a second.

She led me through the hospital halls—real hospital halls. Not makeshift or abandoned. This was fully operational, powered, stocked. I passed nurses, soldiers, and other Fireflies. None of them looked twice at me.

We stopped outside a set of double doors. Marlene turned to me.

“She’s fine,” she said, softer now. “You all made it here safely. Joel’s awake too. He’s… downstairs.”

“And Ellie?”

She looked at me for a beat too long.

“She’s being prepped for surgery.”

The words hit me like a punch.

“What surgery?”

Marlene drew in a breath, steeling herself. “They’re going to remove the cordyceps from her brain. It’s the only way we can reverse engineer a vaccine. We think it’s why she’s immune.”

My blood went cold. “But that’ll kill her.”

“She wouldn’t feel a thing,” Marlene said. “And if she knew the truth… she would’ve wanted to save everyone.”

My fists clenched. “You didn’t even ask.”

“She’s the key,” Marlene said, eyes hard. “To everything. We don’t get a second chance.”

My heart thudded in my chest. “And Joel?”

“He didn’t take the news well.”

Of course he didn’t.

She opened the door behind her. “You can see him. Then you’ll both leave.”

“You’re just going to kill her,” I whispered. “After everything she’s been through.”

Marlene didn’t answer.

I walked inside.

Joel was sitting on the edge of a bed, half-dressed and tense, bruised and raw. His eyes met mine the second I walked in.

“Where is she?” he rasped.

I closed the door behind me. “They’re gonna kill her.”

He didn’t blink. Just stood up, fast, like a storm building behind his eyes.

“We’re getting her out,” I said before he could even speak.

He looked at me, jaw clenched, eyes wild with grief and fury. Then he nodded.

Eight memories.

Eight pieces of my life.

And he had it.

He had it the whole time.

I backed away until the backs of my knees hit the bed. Then I sank down, the mattress creaking under me, the air thick and stale like it hadn’t moved in hours. My mouth was dry. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

I wanted to scream.

I wanted to cry.

I wanted to throw the box across the room and watch it shatter into a thousand tiny pieces.

But I didn’t.

Because I knew that’s exactly what he wanted.

Fear. Power. Control.

He wasn’t just watching.

He was playing.

And I was the game.

My eyes darted to the window. Still cracked open from earlier, just enough to let the air in. Or someone’s eyes.

I shoved it shut. Locked it. Pulled the blinds down and backed away, heart hammering against my ribs like it was trying to get out.

The campus was dark outside. Still. Too still. Like it was holding its breath with me.

I turned the note over in my hand again.

You drop things when you’re not paying attention.

But don’t worry — I’m always watching.

It was taunting. Intimate. Personal.

And I hated that it worked.

I didn’t sleep.

I couldn’t.

Every shadow became a silhouette. Every creak became a footstep. I left the light on, curled up in the farthest corner of my bed, knees hugged to my chest, the desk chair still shoved under the doorknob like it would do anything if he really wanted to come in.

Because that’s the thing I couldn’t stop thinking about —

If he wanted to hurt me tonight… he could’ve.

But he didn’t.

He wanted me scared.

He wanted me wondering when.

Because the not knowing —

That was worse.

It was nearly dawn when I heard it.

Rustling.

Just outside the door.

My blood went ice cold.

I crept toward it, silent, barefoot, heart a ticking time bomb.

No knocks this time.

Just the sound of something being slid under the door.

I waited. Counted to thirty. Then to sixty.

Nothing.

No footsteps. No retreating echo. Just silence.

I inched forward and picked it up.

Another photo.

This time it was me.

Just me.

In my room.

Sleeping.

Except — I hadn't slept. Not once.

My body locked up.

Because it wasn’t from tonight.

It was from a week ago.

Same pajama shirt. Same blanket. Same scar on my ankle from when I tripped on the curb.

A week ago.

He’d been inside.

He’d watched me sleep.

I stumbled back, bile rising in my throat, lungs tight with the pressure of a scream I couldn’t release.

I looked around the room like I might spot him in the shadows. Behind the closet door. Under the bed.

But I was alone.

I was always alone.

Except when I wasn’t.

And now I knew for certain:

He wasn’t just outside anymore.

He was in.

He had been.

And I didn’t know when he’d come back.

Only that he would.

My fingers trembled as I stared down at the Polaroid.

It wasn’t from earlier.

It wasn’t the kiss. It wasn’t Randy.

It was me.

Sleeping.

The photo was grainy, shadowed around the edges — but clear enough. Too clear. I was curled on my side, facing the window, hair draped over the pillow like a dark halo. The blanket was twisted around my legs, one shoulder exposed. My mouth slightly open. Completely unaware.

Completely vulnerable.

The worst part?

It wasn’t taken from outside.

There were no curtains in the frame. No glass. No distance.

It had been taken from inside the room. Just a few feet away from where I slept. A perfect angle from the edge of the mattress.

My bed.

My room.

My sanctuary.

And he had been here.

I didn’t realize I was backing up until the wall stopped me. My spine hit cold plaster and I slid down slowly, knees folding in, the photo still clutched in my hand.

I stared at it again, hoping I was wrong — hoping I could find some detail that proved it wasn’t recent. But I recognized the t-shirt I’d worn last night. The one I tossed in the hamper this morning. The glass of water on my nightstand. The book I’d left open beside it.

He’d been here last night.

Standing right where I was sitting now.

The air felt thinner, tighter. Like the walls were closing in. Like I was still being watched.

I didn’t move. Couldn’t. My eyes scanned the corners of the room like they might give me something — a clue, a sign — anything to make this feel less real.

But everything looked untouched.

Perfect.

Just like I’d left it.

Except it wasn’t.

Because someone had been here.

Someone had stood over me.

Watched me breathe.

Watched me dream.

And I’d slept through it all like a fool.

My stomach twisted.

Was this the first time?

How many nights had he done this?

And then—

Another knock.

Soft. Precise.

The kind of knock that wasn’t looking for attention. The kind that knew you were already listening.

I froze.

No footsteps. No voice on the other side. Just silence. Waiting.

Then something slid under the door with a faint hiss of paper against wood.

I didn’t move for a long moment.

Not until the quiet stretched too long. Not until it started to feel heavier than the noise.

I crawled toward the door, my legs unsteady, and picked up the folded piece of paper.

Same notebook paper. Same messy, slanted handwriting that sliced through me like glass.

My throat tightened as I read.

“Don’t worry, baby.

I didn’t touch you.

I just wanted to see you dream.”

That was worse.

So much worse.

Because it wasn’t about hurting me — not yet.

It was about access. Intimacy.

Permission without consent.

He wanted me to know he could get in — that I didn’t even stir when he did.

That he had all the control.

And I had none.

I looked up. Slowly. Toward the window. The closet. The crack under the bed.

Because now I wasn’t sure if he was ever really gone.

Or if he was still here.

Watching.

Waiting.

“I’m not lettin’ you go in there alone,” Daryl argued, his voice low and deadly. “We don’t know what the hell’s waitin’.”

Rick turned to him. “You’re staying outside with YN and Hershel. Watch my back.”

I didn’t love the plan, but I trusted Rick. I nodded once. “We got you.”

Rick pushed the door open and disappeared inside. I couldn’t stop the gnawing feeling in my gut. This whole place felt off. I scanned the tree line, then looked at Daryl.

He caught my eye. “Keep sharp.”

No more than a minute later, Andrea pulled up in another truck with Milton and Martinez. She jumped out and froze when she saw Rick’s group already here. Her eyes landed on me, wide with surprise.

“YN?” she said, walking toward us. “You came?”

I crossed my arms, wary. “Guess you didn’t think we’d show?”

“I didn’t think Rick would agree to this,” she admitted. “The Governor just wants to talk.”

“Does he?” Daryl muttered behind me. “Not sure he’s the talkin’ type.”

Andrea sighed and turned away. “Let’s just get this over with.”

She walked into the building with Milton and Martinez trailing her. Daryl and I exchanged a glance, then both turned our attention outward again, watching the perimeter. Every creak of wind, every rustle of brush had me reaching for my knife.

“You trust her?” I asked Daryl under my breath.

He glanced at me, jaw tight. “I trust her to fuck it up.”

I gave a short, humorless laugh. “Sounds about right.”

Time passed in quiet spurts. When Rick finally emerged, his face was unreadable. He didn’t speak right away.

“Let’s go,” he said gruffly.

Once we were in the truck again, he finally spoke. “He wants Michonne.”

The words hit the cabin like a gunshot.

“What?” I turned toward him. “He wants us to give her up?”

Rick didn’t answer right away. “Said if we give her over, he’ll back off.”

“He’s lyin’,” Daryl growled. “He ain’t gonna stop even if you hand her over in pieces.”

“He’s gonna kill us no matter what,” I said quietly. “He just wants us to make the first cut.”

Rick looked down at his hands. “I know.”

I met Daryl’s eyes in the rearview mirror. We both understood—there was no peace coming. Only war.

The engine rumbled the entire ride back, but none of us said a word.

Daryl sat next to me in the back seat, his arms folded across his chest, his jaw tight. Hershel was up front, eyes set straight ahead, like he was already trying to make peace with whatever Rick was planning. And Rick… he was stone. Just like always. But the kind of stone that’s been chipped away too many times.

We rolled through the prison gates, past Glenn and Maggie on watch, and into the yard where the others were already waiting. Carol, Beth, Carl, Michonne—they rushed toward us as we got out.

“What happened?” Carol asked, voice tight.

“Did he say anything?” Glenn added, stepping forward.

Rick didn’t answer right away. He just looked around at the group, then turned his eyes up to the guard tower. For a moment, I thought he might actually tell them the truth.

But instead, he just said, “We talked. He wants the prison. All of it.”

Everyone started talking at once—angry, scared, confused. I didn’t say anything. I just kept my eyes on Rick, because I knew that wasn’t all the Governor had said. Not even close.

He looked at Hershel. Just a glance. And I saw it—whatever the Governor had offered, Rick wasn’t ready to say it out loud yet.

Later, after we regrouped in the cell block, the group started laying out weapons, planning watch shifts, going over escape routes like we always did. I kept looking over at Rick. And when he finally walked off toward the upper level, I followed.

I hung back in the shadows as Rick and Hershel talked quietly.

“If we give him Michonne… maybe that buys us some time,” Rick said.

My stomach dropped.

Hershel didn’t answer right away. “You really think he’ll keep his word?”

Rick looked more tired than I’d ever seen him. “I don’t know. But if there’s a chance—if it means keeping Judith safe, Carl, everyone—we have to consider it.”

“And YN?” Hershel asked. “You think she’d be okay with that?”

I stepped forward then. “She’s not.”

They both turned to me, startled.

“Michonne’s one of us,” I said, staring directly at Rick. “You think giving her to that man is gonna save us? He’ll kill her. And then he’ll come back for the rest of us.”

“YN—” Rick started.

“No,” I cut him off. “Don’t even try to justify it. You know what kind of man he is. There’s no deal that ends with us safe and him satisfied.”

Rick’s face hardened. “You think I don’t know that? I’m trying to keep us alive.”

“So am I,” I shot back. “But not like this.”

Hershel looked between us, a heaviness in his eyes. “We’ve all lost things. People. But this… this isn’t the way.”

Rick didn’t say anything else. He just turned and walked away, leaving me and Hershel in silence.

No one knew about the offer yet—not even Daryl. But that secret was already starting to rot from the inside.

I sat near the wall, watching the others move, talk, plan.

Because whatever came next, I knew one thing for sure:

We weren’t just fighting the Governor anymore.

We were fighting to keep the last of our humanity intact.

Sixty-Four

Yn

Rick was acting strange. More withdrawn than usual. Pacing the walkway above like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. I knew he wasn’t just thinking about the Governor.

He was thinking about Michonne.

It had been days since our meeting with the Governor. No answer had been given, no peace agreed to. Just silence. And secrets.

I found Rick alone in the tower that evening, staring out over the field. He didn’t even look at me when I walked in.

"You’re really gonna do it," I said softly.

His jaw tightened.

“Hand her over like she’s nothing.”

“She’s not nothing,” he said quietly. “But I have to think about Carl. Judith. All of you.”

“All of us? Or just yourself?” I stepped closer. “Because if you think betraying one of us is going to save the rest of us, you’ve already lost.”

He finally turned, eyes bloodshot, face tired. “Do you think I want to do this?”

“I think you’ve already decided to.”

He didn’t answer.

That was all I needed.

Later that day I went to find Daryl.

He was sharpening his crossbow bolts when I found him. The sun was setting behind him, painting the sky in hues of red and ash.

“Rick’s gonna give her to him,” I said flatly.

Daryl didn’t react for a second. Then his eyes narrowed. “You sure?”

I nodded. “Saw it in his face. He’s convinced it’s the only way.”

He stood, pacing in frustration. “Shit…”

I watched him quietly, unsure what he’d do with the information.

“You gonna stop him?” I asked.

Daryl didn’t answer. But I knew he wouldn’t stand by and let it happen.

The next morning Rick gathered the group, everyone but Michonne, and gave a speech. It was almost word-for-word like the one he gave after Lori died, but something had shifted.

“This isn’t a dictatorship anymore,” he said. “We vote. We decide who we are.”

I watched him carefully, noticing how his eyes flickered toward Michonne, toward Daryl, toward me.

Was he backing down?

Or just saving face?

I didn't like how this was going or looking. Giving Michonne to the Governor was a death sentence.

Later on in the evening… That’s when it happened. The gunshots echoed across the field.

We all turned toward the woods. Daryl was already moving.

By the time we got there, it was too late.

Merle was gone.

And so was Michonne.

Daryl didn’t say a word.

Not when he saw the car was gone. Not when Rick told him what Merle had done.

Not even when I followed him toward the trees, crossbow in hand, and said, “I’m coming with you.”

He just nodded once, jaw tight, eyes full of a fury I hadn’t seen in a long time.

We moved through the woods in silence, Daryl’s boots crunching over fallen leaves, my breath shallow as I kept pace beside him. I didn’t have to ask where he was going. I already knew.

Merle.

He’d taken Michonne.

He was going to hand her over to the Governor.

But Daryl knew his brother too well.

“He ain’t gonna do it,” Daryl finally muttered, more to himself than to me. “He talks big, but he’s got a line. Somewhere deep down.”

I didn’t answer. Because I wasn’t so sure.

After everything we’d seen, done, survived—people crossed lines more easily now.

We followed the trail for over an hour before we found it.

The car.

Abandoned near a stretch of train tracks, the engine still warm.

“He’s close,” Daryl said, crouching down and scanning the area. I stood beside him, glancing around, nerves starting to spark under my skin. That knot in my stomach? It never meant anything good.

And I was right.

The sound of gunfire snapped the silence like lightning.

Daryl sprinted ahead. I followed without hesitation.

We came to the mill—gray, hollowed, and soaked in silence except for the distant groan of walkers. The door was ajar. Blood smeared the concrete.

“Daryl—” I started, but he raised his hand, signaling me to stay behind as he stepped inside.

I followed anyway. Quiet. Careful.

Inside the open floor of the mill, it was carnage. Walkers piled up in a grotesque heap. A trail of bullet casings. And near the center...

Merle.

Or what was left of him.

He was slumped against a crate, mouth slack, dead eyes staring blankly upward—until he twitched.

A low growl vibrated from his chest.

Daryl froze.

“No…” he breathed, and I could hear the break in his voice, the disbelief giving way to horror.

Daryl moved closer, and I tried to grab his arm, but he shook me off. “Don’t.”

“Daryl—” I choked.

But it was too late.

Walker Merle lunged.

Daryl shoved him back—hard—before tackling him to the ground, sobbing as he wrestled with the monster that used to be his brother.

“I’m sorry,” he cried out, over and over, even as the knife drove into Merle’s skull.

Again.

And again.

And again.

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

I just watched as Daryl collapsed, blood and tears on his face, crumpled over the body of his brother.

I knelt beside him, putting my hand on his back, not saying a word.

Because what do you say when someone loses the only family they had left?

You stay.

You sit in the silence.

You grieve with them.

“I’m here. I'm here.” I wrapped my arms around him and he pulled me closer to him crying into my chest. “I've got you.”

The sun was just beginning to dip below the horizon when we returned to the prison.

Daryl hadn't said a word since we buried Merle. Just silence. Heavy and unrelenting. He looked like a ghost of himself—eyes hollow, shoulders bowed beneath the weight of the world.

I kept near him but didn’t push. I knew grief when I saw it. You didn’t talk your way through that kind of pain. You just endured it.

Rick was on lookout when we reached the gate. He came down when he saw us, eyes scanning Daryl, then landing on me.

“You found him,” Rick said gently, though it wasn’t a question.

Daryl gave a short nod, his jaw clenched so tight I thought he might break his teeth.

Rick’s face fell with understanding. “I’m sorry, man.”

Daryl walked past him without a word.

I stayed behind, meeting Rick’s eyes.

“He did what he had to,” I said quietly. “Merle… he tried to do right. In the end.”

Rick nodded. “That’s something.”

Inside the prison, the atmosphere had changed. People were packing. Moving supplies. Preparing for what we all knew was coming.

War.

Carol was the first to see Daryl. She stopped mid-step, eyes widening when she saw the blood on him—not his, but Merle’s.

“He’s gone?” she asked softly.

Daryl just nodded again and kept walking.

I watched her watch him, that flicker of sympathy in her eyes. We all cared for Daryl in our own ways. But this—this was the kind of wound that cut deeper than any knife.

He disappeared down the cell block stairs, to the tombs. To be alone.

I wanted to follow. Part of me needed to. But something in the way he walked—like he might shatter if someone touched him—told me to wait.

So I helped with the preparations.

Glenn and Maggie were sorting weapons. Carl was checking the perimeter with Hershel. Rick stood in the corner of the main cell block, watching his people—his family—move like a well-oiled machine, but with tired, haunted eyes.

He caught my gaze.

“You think we’re ready?” he asked.

I looked at the weapons, the barricades, the faces of people who had lost too much already.

“No,” I said honestly. “But we’re not waiting anymore.”

He gave a grim smile. “No, we’re not.”

That night, I found Daryl sitting alone in the corner of the tombs, the light from a lantern flickering across his face. He didn’t look up when I sat beside him.

“He used to put out cigarettes on my bed,” he said suddenly. “Back at the house. Would laugh about it. Thought it was funny.”

I didn’t speak.

“But when it was just us out there, him and me… he looked out for me. Even if he didn’t know how to say it.”

He finally turned to me.

“I didn’t get to say goodbye.”

“You did,” I told him. “You were there. That’s more than most people get.” I walked over to him and stood between his legs.

His hands rested on my hips. He stared at me for a long time, then nodded once.

“We finish this tomorrow,” he muttered.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “We do.”

And we would.

Because we were tired of running.

Because we had already lost too much.

Because the Governor was coming.

And this time… we’d be ready.

She didn’t speak right away. Just walked to me, pulled a small white bottle from her pocket, and dropped it into my hand.

Antibiotics.

I stared at it, breath catching in my throat. “Where the hell did you—”

“I ran into some guys. Two of them. One of ‘em—David—said they had medicine to trade.” Her voice was tight, her jaw clenched. “We made a deal. I gave ‘em some deer meat. They gave me this.”

I frowned. “You went alone?”

“Yeah. Had no choice.”

“And they just gave you this?”

Her silence answered that.

I looked her over—mud on her knees, blood on her coat, but no fresh injuries beyond the arm. “Ellie—”

“They were part of the group from the university,” she cut in. “The guys we killed? They were with them.”

My heart dropped.

“I didn’t tell them who I was. But they know. David knew.” Her voice cracked then. “They’re coming.”

I looked past her, toward Joel, who was still unconscious but breathing—slow, steady.

“We need to lead them away from here,” I said.

Ellie nodded. “That’s what I figured.”

I moved fast, preparing the injection and finding a clean patch of skin on Joel’s stomach. The needle trembled in my hand as I pressed it in, slow and careful. He didn’t stir, but his skin was warm. Too warm. Fever still holding on.

“You’ll be okay,” I whispered. “You just need time.”

Ellie was already checking weapons, loading bullets with shaking hands.

“We can lead them east. Toward the river. Get them far enough away, maybe they’ll give up.”

“And if they don’t?”

She looked up at me, face unreadable. “Then we kill them.”

We left a note by Joel’s side—just in case. A few last whispered words. And then we slipped into the snow again, back into the white silence of the world.

They were waiting for us by the time we reached the trees.

Five men.

David was at the center. Calm. Patient.

“We don’t want to hurt you,” he called. “Just come with us. We’ll talk.”

Ellie raised her rifle. “Not interested.”

David smiled like it was a game. “That’s a shame.”

The men started to spread out.

I grabbed Ellie’s sleeve. “Run.”

We did.

Through the trees. Over the ridge. Bullets cracked behind us, bark splintered from trunks, snow burst in flurries at our feet. We ran until our lungs burned, until we couldn’t hear anything but the wind and our own footsteps—

And then I slipped.

Down a slope slick with ice, crashing through brush and dead limbs, until the world went sideways and dark.

When I opened my eyes, everything was quiet.

Too quiet.

My hands were bound.

And Ellie was gone.

The first thing I felt was the cold—sharp and unforgiving, sinking into my bones like claws. My head throbbed, blood sticky at my temple, and my arms ached from being tied behind my back.

Panic hit me before thought did.

"Ellie?" I rasped, twisting against the ropes.

Nothing.

Just the wind through brittle trees, and somewhere in the distance, muffled voices.

I forced myself up, staggering to my knees. My vision blurred at the edges, dark and sluggish, but I stayed conscious. Had to.

I was in some kind of shed—a hunting shack, maybe. The walls were rotted wood, the roof bowed with snow. There was no lock on the door, just a latch on the outside. I couldn’t get to it.

But someone would be back. I was sure of that.

And if they had me—if they separated us—they had Ellie, too.

David.

The thought of his calm, manipulative voice, the way he looked at Ellie like she was prey… it made my blood boil.

I had to get out. Now.

I scanned the floor, heart hammering. There—broken glass, maybe from an old lantern, just inches away.

I shifted, twisting my wrists, biting back a groan as the ropes dug into my skin. My fingers stretched, scraped, reached—

Got it.

The shard bit into my palm, but I didn’t care. I worked fast, sawing through the rope, every second screaming with urgency. Ellie was out there. Alone.

No—not alone. She was tough. Smart. A survivor. But she shouldn’t have to face this without me.

The ropes finally gave way with a snap.

I stood, barely steady on my feet, and shoved the door open.

Snow blinded me at first, but I stumbled out, scanning the tree line. I didn’t know how far they’d gone, or how much time had passed.

Then I heard it.

A scream.

Distant. Muffled. Ellie.

I didn’t stop to think.

I ran.

Branches tore at my face, snow soaked through my jeans, but I kept going—toward the sound, toward her.

And then, through the trees, I saw it.

A lodge. Windows glowing. Smoke curling from a crooked chimney.

I crept closer, heart thundering, staying low. Inside, shadows moved—figures pacing, voices rising.

David.

He was in there with her.

My hands curled into fists.

Joel was still lying in that basement, half-dead.

But I wasn’t.

And I wasn’t leaving Ellie behind. Not this time.

I reached for the pistol still tucked at my hip.

It was time to finish this.

The lodge was burning.

Smoke rolled into the trees, thick and black, and the snow turned to steam beneath the flames. I stumbled through the ash-covered ground, clothes torn, hands raw from fighting for my life. David was dead. I’d made sure of it. The machete still hung limp in my hand, slick with blood.

But I couldn’t stop shaking.

I pushed out of the building just as the fire began to swallow the roof. My breaths came in ragged gasps, fogging in the frozen air. I couldn’t see anything but red.

“Ellie!” I cried out hoarsely, stumbling into the snow.

The moment I broke from the door, something moved in the woods. I turned, swinging instinctively, blade raised.

Then I heard it.

“Ellie!”

His voice.

Ellie whirled around, eyes wild, face smeared with soot and blood, fists clenched at her sides. She backed away at first, terrified, until the figure broke from the tree line and staggered toward her.

“Hey,” Joel said, his voice thick, breathless, but alive. “Hey, it’s me. It’s me.”

Her knees buckled.

“Joel?” she choked.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, arms wrapping around her, pulling her into his chest. “I’ve got you, baby girl.”

She clung to him, sobbing now, fists twisted in his jacket like she was afraid he’d vanish. His hand cupped the back of her head, holding her tight, like he could shield her from everything she’d just been through.

I stepped out of the flames behind them, slower, more hesitant.

My clothes were soaked in blood—most of it David’s. My face stung from the gash on my cheek, and my hands trembled at my sides. The machete slipped from my fingers and sank into the snow with a dull thunk.

Joel turned, still holding Ellie, and when his eyes landed on me, something in his chest cracked open. I could see it—relief and pain, guilt and fury, all colliding behind his eyes.

“YN,” he rasped, reaching out with one arm. “Jesus Christ.”

I collapsed into him, and for a long moment, the three of us just held on to each other. Joel’s body was still weak, still healing, but his arms didn’t let go.

“I thought I lost you both,” he whispered into my hair. “I—I couldn’t find you.”

“We’re okay,” I murmured, clinging to him like Ellie was. “We’re here.”

He looked between us—at the blood, the burns, the haunted look in Ellie’s eyes. He didn’t ask what happened.

He didn’t need to.

He just held us closer and whispered, “I’ve got you. I’ve got you both.”

“We need antibiotics,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” I said quietly, brushing snow off my sleeves. “And clean water. More blankets.”

“There’s got to be something in here.” She stood, resolve taking root. “Pharmacy. First aid station. Anything.”

I nodded. “We stick together.”

She looked at Joel, then back at me. “If he wakes up—”

“I’ll come find you,” I promised. “Let’s move.”

We crept through the mall, boots crunching on glass, past storefronts frozen in time. Mannequins dressed in half-torn clothes stared blankly from cracked displays. A candy store with shelves still stocked with stale gum and expired energy bars. A shuttered arcade, lights long gone cold.

Then we found it—an old pharmacy.

The gate was half-jammed open. Ellie ducked under. I followed, pistol raised. The place had been looted before—empty shelves, scattered pill bottles. But then I saw it—locked medical cabinet in the back. Intact.

Jackpot.

“Cover me,” I told her, and started working at the lock with a rusted crowbar from the maintenance closet we’d passed.

It gave after a minute of work, the metal shrieking loud enough to make my skin crawl.

Inside: saline. Syringes. Bandages. Alcohol. Antibiotics—fucking finally.

“We got it,” I breathed.

“Let’s go,” Ellie said, grabbing what she could. “Fast.”

But something wasn’t right.

A sound.

Distant, but unmistakable.

Footsteps.

I turned, heart skipping. Not infected. Too steady.

People.

“They must’ve seen the horses,” Ellie whispered, wide-eyed. “Shit. We need to move.”

We bolted back toward Joel, supplies clutched to our chests. My legs ached. My lungs burned. But we didn’t stop. We couldn’t.

Back in the store room, I slammed the door shut and barricaded it again. Joel hadn’t moved, but his breathing was still there—just barely.

Ellie knelt and started cleaning the wound with shaking hands. “Come on, Joel,” she whispered. “You have to hang on.”

I crouched beside her, helping where I could—holding the light steady, unwrapping the bandages, helping to inject the meds into his thigh.

“Please,” Ellie said softly, pressing her forehead to his shoulder. “We can’t do this without you.”

I looked down at Joel—strongest man I’d ever known—and for the first time, I was terrified we were about to lose him.

Outside, the storm howled louder.

Inside, we held on.

The wind howled through broken windows like a living thing—sharp, teeth-bared, furious. I shoved an old shelving unit in front of the door as best I could and turned back toward Joel. He was still unconscious, his breathing shallow, face pale beneath layers of sweat and blood.

I dropped to my knees beside him, checking the wound again. It was bad. Deep. The bleeding had slowed, but he was burning up now. Infection was setting in, fast.

Ellie sat cross-legged beside him, biting her thumbnail, eyes fixed on Joel’s face like she could will him to stay alive.

“We need antibiotics,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” I said quietly, brushing snow off my sleeves. “And clean water. More blankets.”

“There’s got to be something in here.” She stood, resolve taking root. “Pharmacy. First aid station. Anything.”

I nodded. “We stick together.”

She looked at Joel, then back at me. “If he wakes up—”

“I’ll come find you,” I promised. “Let’s move.”

We crept through the mall, boots crunching on glass, past storefronts frozen in time. Mannequins dressed in half-torn clothes stared blankly from cracked displays. A candy store with shelves still stocked with stale gum and expired energy bars. A shuttered arcade, lights long gone cold.

Then we found it—an old pharmacy.

The gate was half-jammed open. Ellie ducked under. I followed, pistol raised. The place had been looted before—empty shelves, scattered pill bottles. But then I saw it—locked medical cabinet in the back. Intact.

Jackpot.

“Cover me,” I told her, and started working at the lock with a rusted crowbar from the maintenance closet we’d passed.

It gave after a minute of work, the metal shrieking loud enough to make my skin crawl.

Inside: saline. Syringes. Bandages. Alcohol. Antibiotics—fucking finally.

“We got it,” I breathed.

“Let’s go,” Ellie said, grabbing what she could. “Fast.”

But something wasn’t right.

A sound.

Distant, but unmistakable.

Footsteps.

I turned, heart skipping. Not infected. Too steady.

People.

“They must’ve seen the horses,” Ellie whispered, wide-eyed. “Shit. We need to move.”

We bolted back toward Joel, supplies clutched to our chests. My legs ached. My lungs burned. But we didn’t stop. We couldn’t.

Back in the store room, I slammed the door shut and barricaded it again. Joel hadn’t moved, but his breathing was still there—just barely.

Ellie knelt and started cleaning the wound with shaking hands. “Come on, Joel,” she whispered. “You have to hang on.”

I crouched beside her, helping where I could—holding the light steady, unwrapping the bandages, helping to inject the meds into his thigh.

“Please,” Ellie said softly, pressing her forehead to his shoulder. “We can’t do this without you.”

I looked down at Joel—strongest man I’d ever known—and for the first time, I was terrified we were about to lose him.

Outside, the storm howled louder.

Inside, we held on.

We found the house on the edge of town, half-covered by snow and almost completely silent, like the world had forgotten it. The basement was still intact—cold, but sheltered—and we dragged Joel inside just before nightfall. The horses were stabled in the broken garage next door, sheltered enough from the wind.

The basement floor was hard, the air stale with dust and old mildew, but it was better than dying in the open. We made Joel a bed in the corner with the old mattress we’d found upstairs, layered in every blanket we had. He hadn’t woken—not really—but he was breathing, twitching sometimes, whispering incoherently through cracked lips.

Ellie was curled beside him earlier, whispering something under her breath. She didn’t say what. But when she finally looked at me, her eyes were tight with purpose.

“He needs more antibiotics,” she said. “We’re gonna run out.”

I didn’t want to let her go.

“I can go instead,” I offered, quietly.

Ellie shook her head. “You stay with him. He needs you more than me right now.”

And then she was gone—into the snow, rifle on her back.

The basement was dim and quiet after that, just the occasional creak of the wind against the siding and Joel’s ragged breathing. I sat next to him for a long while, just watching his chest rise and fall, counting each breath like a promise he hadn’t broken yet.

Eventually, I laid down beside him, slipping under the blankets and pressing my head gently to his chest. It was too quiet without Ellie. Too still. The heat from his body barely warmed me, but the sound of his heart—uneven but stubborn—kept me grounded.

I didn’t know I’d drifted off until I felt it.

A shift.

A groan.

I jolted up. “Joel?”

His eyes cracked open—barely slits, glazed and bloodshot. He winced, exhaled through gritted teeth. Then he looked at me. Really looked at me.

“Hey,” I whispered, tears springing to my eyes. “You’re awake…”

His hand twitched, reaching, but he didn’t have the strength to lift it. His lips were cracked. His voice came rough and broken.

“You need… to go.”

“What?” I leaned closer, grabbing his hand, holding it against my chest. “No. No, Joel, we’re not leaving you.”

“YN…” His eyes squeezed shut, his throat worked as he forced the words out. “Take Ellie… go. Get her… to Tommy.”

“Stop,” I said, my voice rising, cracking. “Don’t do this.”

“You have to.” His tone was sharper now, more desperate despite how weak he was. “I’m not gonna make it. And I can’t—I can’t watch you two die ‘cause of me.”

I shook my head violently. “You don’t get to decide that. You don’t get to give up on us.”

Joel looked away, jaw clenched, breathing ragged. “It’s not giving up. It’s doing what’s right.”

“No,” I snapped, tears falling now. “You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to look me in the eye and tell me to walk away while you rot in some freezing basement. You promised, Joel. You promised you’d protect us. And now you think abandoning us is somehow noble?”

He flinched—not from pain, but from my words.

“Ellie loves you,” I continued, voice softer but trembling. “And I… I care about you so much it hurts. Don’t you dare ask me to leave.”

His eyes flicked back to me, guilt and grief swirling in them like a storm. For a second, neither of us said anything. His breathing was shallow, strained. My hand still clutched his.

“I’m not leaving,” I whispered, pressing my forehead to his. “You hear me, Joel? I’m staying right here. Until you’re better. Until you come back.”

He didn’t answer, but he didn’t protest again.

His hand tightened slightly around mine.

My heart thundered, but something twisted in my chest — a sick, familiar dread. The way he stared, the stillness, the deliberate game of it.

Just like two years ago.

Woodsboro. Those frantic nights when he’d chased me through the woods, the brush clawing at my skin, his laughter echoing in the dark. Twice I’d escaped, sprinting through the tangled trees, feeling his presence — never seeing, just knowing. Always letting me run, always watching. A cat playing with a mouse.

And now it was happening again.

My foot caught a rock, and I stumbled, barely catching myself. My gaze snapped forward, the twisted campus paths stretching on. No one else around. The world felt empty.

But I couldn’t stop. Not until I was somewhere — anywhere — safe.

I veered off the path, plunging into a cluster of trees, branches clawing at my arms. The darkness swallowed me, the faint lights of campus lost behind thick shadows. My breaths were ragged, my pulse a drumbeat.

Ghostface didn’t follow.

But he was there. I could feel it, the weight of his gaze. The game continued, and I was still his prey.

My mind raced. Two years. Two years since the last time he’d chased me. Since I’d left Woodsboro. Since I’d tried to bury it all — the fear, the blood, the screams.

And yet here he was. Back. Or maybe he’d never left.

My foot struck a root, and I stumbled to my knees, dirt and leaves biting against my palms. I choked back a sob, forcing myself up, wiping the tears I hadn’t realized were spilling down my cheeks.

"No," I whispered to the darkness. "Not again."

I forced myself forward, pushing through the underbrush, branches snagging my hair, my skin. The faint rustle of leaves behind me — was it just the wind? Or something more?

I didn’t know. I just kept running.

Suddenly, the trees thinned, and I broke onto a paved trail winding through the park. Lampposts stood like silent sentinels, their pale light spilling pools across the path. I hesitated, glancing over my shoulder. Nothing but darkness.

But I knew better than to trust it.

I ran again, faster this time. My muscles burned, and my breaths came in sharp gasps, but I didn’t care. A bench flashed by. A statue loomed like a ghost. The park seemed to twist around me, every path a maze.

And then I heard it.

A soft, deliberate footstep on the gravel behind me.

My heart seized. I bolted, the world blurring around me. I wasn’t sure where I was going — just away, just forward, just anywhere but here.

A bridge appeared ahead, arcing over a dark, sluggish stream. I didn’t think, just dashed onto it, the metal railing cold beneath my touch. Halfway across, I dared a glance back.

Ghostface stood at the bridge’s edge, motionless, watching.

A scream tore from my throat, and I spun, racing to the other side. The path bent, twisting out of sight, and I followed it, the trees pressing close again.

But even as I ran, I knew.

He didn’t have to chase me.

He never did.

I didn’t stop running, but I tried to think — a way out, a direction. The park was a maze, every path looping back on itself. I needed to get somewhere with people, lights, safety.

I veered left, sprinting along a narrow dirt trail, shadows closing in. But as I rounded a corner, I skidded to a halt.

Ghostface stood in the middle of the path.

My mind froze. He hadn’t followed me. He’d gone around. He was waiting. Watching.

"No," I breathed, taking a step back.

He tilted his head again, a silent, cruel mockery. A gloved hand rose, the blade catching the pale moonlight.

I turned to run, but my foot caught on a root, and I tumbled to the ground, pain lancing up my ankle. Panic clawed at my chest. I crawled backward, dirt and leaves cold beneath my palms, never taking my eyes off him.

Ghostface stepped closer, slow, deliberate.

"Please," I whispered, tears blurring my vision.

But he didn’t stop.

And I had nowhere left to run.

Each movement was slow. Calculated. The way a lion might circle a dying gazelle — not out of urgency, but curiosity. Control.

I couldn’t breathe.

My back dug into the tree behind me, rough bark scraping through fabric and into skin. My hands, scraped and shaking, curled tighter into fists at my sides. I could hear my heartbeat in my ears — feel it in my throat, suffocating and wild.

Still, he said nothing.

He didn’t raise the knife again. Didn’t lunge. Just stood there, watching me, like I was something caged. Something pathetic.

His silence screamed louder than any threat.

“Why?” I rasped, my voice barely a whisper. “What do you want from me?”

The mask tilted. A slow, deliberate tilt. Like he was trying to understand the question — or maybe laughing at it.

I wanted to run again. I wanted to fight. But I couldn’t move. My ankle throbbed, useless beneath me, and even if it wasn’t, I knew the truth.

He could’ve killed me.

A hundred times over.

But he didn’t.

Because he didn’t want to.

This was about something else. Not blood. Not the thrill of the kill.

It was about me.

He wanted me afraid. Wanted me cornered. Wanted to watch.

Like before. Woodsboro. The breath on my neck, the whisper of steel in the dark, the game he never finished playing.

"You won't win," I said, forcing the words past my clenched jaw. "You never do."

And then, something I hadn’t expected.

He laughed.

It was low, muffled behind the mask — more breath than sound — but it was there. A scoff, almost. Derisive. Like he knew something I didn’t.

Then, without warning, he turned.

Just like that.

He disappeared into the trees, vanishing into the dark like a shadow melting into its source. Not running. Not rushing. Just gone.

And I was alone again.

My chest heaved. My fingers were numb. The cold finally sank in, seeping into my bones, dragging everything with it.

He’d let me go. Again.

And somehow, that was worse.

Because this wasn’t over.

This was just the beginning.

I didn’t know how long I sat there — slumped against that tree like a ghost of myself, breath shallow, body trembling — before I finally forced my legs to move.

Each step was agony.

My ankle throbbed with every shift of weight, hot and swollen, but I kept going. Limping through the woods, back toward the faint golden glow of campus, letting instinct guide me like muscle memory.

The night was too quiet.

No crickets. No wind. No sound but the drag of my injured foot through dead leaves and the rasp of my breath.

But I felt it again.

That chill along my spine. That weight behind my ribs.

Like eyes.

Watching.

Every few seconds I stopped, heart hammering, and looked over my shoulder — into the dark, into nothing. But the feeling wouldn’t leave. It clung to me, a second skin, invisible and suffocating.

When the campus finally came into view, I didn’t relax. I didn’t breathe. I just kept moving — up the path, past the quad, through the heavy dorm doors that creaked too loud in the silence.

No one was in the halls. It was late. Safe.

At least, it was supposed to be.

My door clicked open with the turn of my key, and I stepped inside.

At first, everything looked normal. My jacket was still slung across the desk chair. My textbook was open where I left it, pages curling slightly from the draft of the cracked window.

But then I saw it.

My bed.

Something sat on the pillow.

Not something.

Two things.

A folded piece of paper — lined, torn from a notebook — and a Polaroid photo.

My stomach dropped.

I crossed the room slowly, like I was afraid the photo would disappear if I looked too fast.

But it didn’t.

It was me and Randy.

Captured in a moment I thought was ours alone. His lips were brushing mine — soft, careful, familiar. A kiss that once felt like safety. Like home.

But now… now it looked like something else.

A trap. A performance.

His hand was tangled in my hair, deepening the kiss, while mine clutched the front of his jacket. His fingers were tracing my jaw, trailing down my neck, sending a visible shiver through me. Then lower — slipping beneath my sweatshirt, pressing against the bare skin of my hip.

The image was intimate. Raw.

Too raw.

Too close.

Taken from a distance, but somehow still inside the moment.

Someone had been there. Watching. Waiting.

Hidden.

I unfolded the note with fingers that didn’t feel like mine.

“You looked sweet tonight.

He looked like he wanted to do more than kiss.

But you’re not his final girl, baby.

You’re mine.”

No name. No signature.

But I didn’t need one.

I knew who it was.

I knew who was watching.

And now, I knew for sure:

He was closer than I’d ever imagined.

I stood there, frozen.

The note dangled from my fingers. The photo slipped from my hand and landed face-down on the floor with a soft whisper of paper against wood.

My stomach twisted.

I was being watched. Had been watched. Someone had been close enough to hear my breath, close enough to see the exact moment my walls cracked — and capture it.

The phone rang.

I jumped so hard I nearly knocked over the lamp on my desk.

It was the dorm landline — beige plastic, coiled cord, buttons that clicked too loud. No caller ID. Just the shrill, mechanical scream of the ringer cutting through the silence.

I stared at it, willing it to stop.

It didn’t.

On the fourth ring, I picked up.

I didn’t say anything. Neither did the caller.

But I heard breathing.

Slow. Measured. Like he had all the time in the world.

Then, a voice — soft, calm, almost gentle.

"Check outside your door."

Click.

The line went dead.

A second later —

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Three slow, deliberate knocks.

Not frantic. Not loud.

Just… certain.

I stared at the door like it might explode. My skin prickled with cold. My throat tightened.

Another knock.

Then silence.

I took one step forward. Then another. The floor creaked beneath my bare feet. I didn’t even notice I was holding my breath until my chest began to ache.

I pressed my eye to the peephole.

At first, nothing.

Then I looked down.

Something was on the floor just outside the door.

Wrapped in black ribbon.

Small. Square. Like a present.

I didn’t open the door. Not all the way. Just cracked it enough to snake my arm out and grab whatever it was, slamming it shut again the second I had it.

I double-locked it. Shoved the desk chair under the knob.

Then I looked at what he’d left me.

A plain white box.

I untied the ribbon with numb fingers.

Inside… was a charm bracelet.

My charm bracelet.

The silver one I wore all through high school — the one I thought I lost at that bonfire party near the edge of the woods last semester.

I thought it slipped off my wrist.

I thought I was just careless.

But it wasn’t lost.

It had been taken.

Beneath the bracelet was another note, folded small.

“You drop things when you’re not paying attention.

But don’t worry — I’m always watching.

I always find what you lose.”

My stomach lurched.

I dropped the box. The bracelet landed with a metallic clink against the floor.

I backed away, heart crashing against my ribs, limbs locked with fear.

He’d been there. Not just tonight.

All along.

And now he wanted me to know it.

This wasn’t just about watching anymore.

But the courtyard was empty. The halls were silent. No Ghostface under the flickering lamppost. No shadow in the trees.

Maybe Dewey was right. Maybe I was just letting the fear get to me.

But as I reached my dorm door and slid my key into the lock, that brief spark of calm died.

The door swung open.

I hadn’t unlocked it yet.

My breath hitched. I stepped back, the hallway suddenly too quiet, too still.

“Hello?” I whispered, my voice barely louder than a breath.

Silence.

No. No, this wasn’t happening. Maybe I forgot to lock it when I ran out earlier. Maybe… maybe I just hadn’t pulled it shut all the way.

But I knew I did. I always did.

My fingers tightened around my keychain, and I forced myself to step forward. The room was dark, the curtains half-drawn, a faint amber glow from the setting sun spilling across the floor.

Everything looked… normal.

My textbooks were still scattered across the desk. My bed was unmade, the blankets tangled from my earlier panic. The old landline phone sat on the nightstand, silent and still.

But I couldn’t shake it. That feeling of being watched. Of someone — something — lurking just out of sight.

I stepped inside, shutting the door behind me. The lock clicked into place with a soft, final sound. My backpack slid off my shoulder, thudding onto the floor.

“It’s fine,” I whispered to myself, trying to force the panic away. “You’re just being paranoid.”

I walked over to the window, peering out between the curtains. The courtyard below was empty, shadows stretching as the sun sank lower. No sign of anyone watching. No flicker of black robes or white masks.

I let the curtain fall back, turning toward my bed. Maybe I should just pack a bag, head to Dewey’s for the night. Safety in numbers. That made sense. I didn’t have to be brave. I just had to be smart.

My hands trembled as I grabbed a duffel bag from my closet, tossing in a change of clothes, a sweater—

The phone rang.

I froze.

No.

Not again.

It rang once. Twice. The sound a piercing scream in the silence.

Slowly, I turned to look at it — the old, off-white landline sitting on the nightstand. No caller ID, just the relentless, shrill ring.

I stared at it, my heart pounding so hard I thought I might faint.

It rang again.

Another ring.

My fingers twitched, a war raging in my head — answer it or run. But my feet wouldn’t move. My hand wouldn’t reach.

The ringing stopped.

Silence.

I sucked in a shaky breath, trying to steady myself.

Then the voicemail clicked. A faint hum. Silence again.

Then… breathing.

Slow. Heavy. Just like before.

The voice came, low and sickly sweet, dripping with mockery.

“Did you think he could save you?”

My blood turned to ice.

“Poor little Y/N. So scared. So desperate. Always running. But you can’t run from me.”

My knees buckled, and I sank onto the bed, staring at the phone, the voice cutting into me like a knife.

“You’re all alone now. No friends. No family. No one to run to. Not even your sweet boyfriend.” A dark, twisted chuckle. “I wonder how long it will take him to forget you.”

Tears welled in my eyes, blurring everything. “What… what do you want?” I whispered, even though I knew he couldn’t hear me.

“I want you to feel it, Y/N. That cold knot in your stomach. That prickling at the back of your neck. I want you to know… you’re not alone.”

I gripped the receiver, shaking so hard I could barely hold it.

“Look out the window, sweetheart.”

I didn’t want to. Every instinct screamed at me not to. But I couldn’t stop myself. My head turned, my eyes tracing to the window — to the courtyard below.

And there he was.

Ghostface.

Standing beneath the same flickering lamppost as before. The long black robe flowing in the breeze, the white mask tilted up toward my window.

My breath hitched. My vision blurred.

“You see me, don’t you?” the voice whispered. “But do you know how close I am?”

My legs moved before I could think, rushing to the door, the lock clicking as I turned it. But I knew it was pointless. He could be anywhere. He could already be inside.

“Why are you doing this?” I cried, my voice cracking.

Silence. The line was dead. But the fear remained — crawling, suffocating.

I stared at the window, praying he’d be gone. That I imagined it.

But he wasn’t.

Ghostface hadn’t moved. Just stood there, staring. Watching.

A tear slipped down my cheek, and I backed away, curling against the wall, knees hugged to my chest.

I was alone. Completely alone.

No Dewey. No Randy. No one.

And Ghostface… he was closer than ever.

The room was a prison. The walls pressed in, the darkness pooling in the corners like something alive. The cold air felt thick, suffocating, each breath harder to take.

The phone rang again.

I stared at it, my chest tight. It felt like a bomb counting down. Ring. Ring. A high-pitched scream in the silence.

I didn’t want to answer. But I couldn’t let it keep ringing. I grabbed the receiver with shaking hands, pressing it to my ear.

“Hello?”

Silence.

Then a slow, steady breath. Deep and heavy, like the hiss of a snake.

“Did you really think you were safe in there?” The voice was a cold, taunting whisper. “Locked doors mean nothing.”

A chill ran down my spine. My eyes darted to the door — locked, the deadbolt secure. I twisted the handle just to be sure.

“I see you. I know where you hide. But here’s the fun part…”

The deadbolt clicked. My hand was still on it, but it twisted beneath my fingers, unlocking with a soft, mechanical snap.

My breath caught. I stumbled back, the phone slipping from my grip, the dial tone buzzing in the quiet.

The door swung open.

Darkness gaped beyond it, the hallway an empty void. But I knew he was there. I could feel him.

"Run," he whispered, so soft it was almost a breath.

Terror seized me, and my body moved before I could think. I bolted.

My feet slammed against the cold tile, carrying me into the hallway. My shoulder clipped the wall, a flash of pain that barely registered. I sprinted, the hallway stretching out before me, every door a faceless blur.

But I wasn’t alone.

The shadows stirred. He was there — a shape just at the edge of my vision. Watching. Waiting.

But he didn’t move.

I ran faster, my pulse pounding in my ears. The stairwell loomed ahead, and I slammed into the door, nearly falling through. My hands fumbled on the railing as I stumbled down the steps, the metal cold beneath my grip.

Silence chased me. No footsteps. No heavy breathing. But I could feel him — a weight pressing against me. Letting me run. Letting me struggle.

He was toying with me.

I crashed through the ground-floor door, the night air slamming against my face. The courtyard stretched out like an empty wasteland. But I didn’t stop. Didn’t look back.

The campus lights were faint, the pathways twisting, shadows pooling beneath every tree. I hurtled across the grass, my vision blurring, tears freezing against my cheeks.

He was there. He had to be. He was always there.

But the only sound was my ragged breathing. The only footsteps were my own.

Still, I didn’t dare stop. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

"Y/N?" Randy’s voice broke through, softer now. "You even listening?"

I blinked, forcing a smile. "Yeah. Sorry. Just… just distracted."

His gaze softened. "Yeah. I get that."

Silence settled between us, stretching out like a thin thread ready to snap. We wandered toward the quieter side of campus, where the paths twisted between old oaks and the hum of student chatter faded.

Randy’s hand brushed against mine, tentative. Testing. And even though part of me screamed to pull away, I didn’t. I let his fingers intertwine with mine, his warmth pressing against the cold chill that had settled in my bones.

"You know," he murmured, squeezing my hand lightly, "whatever’s going on… you can talk to me. You can trust me."

Trust.

The word clawed at me.

Could I? Could I really? Or was this all just another mask — something I’d built around him to keep myself sane? To pretend I wasn’t completely alone?

I swallowed hard, struggling to push the thoughts away. "I know. I do."

But even I didn’t believe myself.

We kept walking, the leaves crunching beneath our feet. Randy kept talking, trying to fill the silence — stories about his film class, a rant about some freshman who didn’t know the difference between Carrie and Firestarter. His voice was warm, easy, everything I used to love.

But now it felt like a soundtrack to a horror movie.

We turned a corner, and the path opened up to the small campus park. The benches were mostly empty, except for a couple making out beneath a tree, oblivious to the world.

Randy tugged me toward a bench on the edge of the clearing. I followed, sinking onto the cold metal, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on me.

He leaned back, his arm draped along the back of the bench, his other hand still holding mine. "See? Isn’t this better? No weird phone calls. No creepy notes. Just… peace."

Peace.

I looked out at the park, at the leaves swirling in the breeze. It should’ve felt calming. But all I could think about was how easily someone could be watching us. How easily someone could be lurking just out of sight.

"Hey." Randy’s voice was closer now, his hand shifting to tilt my chin toward him. "Seriously. What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?"

I opened my mouth — ready to spill everything, to confess how the fear was eating me alive, how I didn’t know who I could trust anymore, how even now, with him sitting beside me, I felt like I was waiting for the knife to drop.

But the words tangled in my throat.

"I’m just… I’m scared, Randy," I whispered.

"I know. I know you are." He leaned in, his forehead touching mine, his breath warm against my cheek. "But you don’t have to be. Not with me."

His lips brushed against mine, soft and careful. It was the kind of kiss that used to feel like safety. Like home.

But now… now it was just another trap.

His hand slid up, curling into my hair, deepening the kiss. And for a moment — just one moment — I let myself melt into it, let myself pretend I could still believe him. Still trust him.

His fingers traced my jaw, then slid down, grazing the side of my neck. A shiver ran through me, but I didn’t pull away. Not yet.

"Y/N," he whispered against my lips, his voice low and warm, "you don’t have to be afraid. Not of me. Not of anything."

His hand shifted to my waist, his touch steady, pulling me closer. My heart raced, a mix of fear and something else. Something I didn’t want to admit.

And then his hand slid lower, fingers tracing the hem of my sweatshirt, slipping beneath, pressing against the bare skin of my hip.

Heat pooled in my chest, drowning out the fear — if only for a second.

I kissed him harder, my fingers curling into the front of his jacket.

This was right. This was safe. This was—

You broke the first rule.

The voice roared to life in my mind, a blade cutting through the warmth.

Never have sex.

I pulled back, wrenching away so fast I nearly fell off the bench.

Randy’s eyes widened, his hand slipping free, caught in the air between us. "Whoa. Hey. What—"

"I can’t," I whispered, my breath coming too fast, too sharp. "I… I can’t. I’m sorry."

"Y/N…" He reached for me again, but I flinched, and his hand froze. Confusion and hurt warred on his face. "Did I… did I do something wrong?"

"No. No, it’s not… it’s not you. It’s me. I’m just—" My hands twisted in my sleeves, gripping so tight my knuckles went white. "I can’t do this. I can’t—"

"Hey, it’s okay." His voice softened, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes. Disappointment? Frustration? Or something darker?

I couldn’t tell.

He leaned back, forcing a smile. "I get it. I pushed too fast. I’m sorry."

But the tension didn’t leave his shoulders. His fingers drummed against his knee, a nervous habit I’d seen a thousand times — only now it felt like a ticking clock.

"I should… I should go," I muttered, already standing, backing away.

"Y/N—" He started to stand, but I shook my head.

"I just… I need to clear my head. I’ll… I’ll see you later."

I didn’t wait for his response. I turned and walked away, forcing myself not to run, even as the cold wind clawed at my face.

Leaves twisted and danced around me, and I could feel his gaze on my back — too heavy, too sharp.

I didn’t look back.

But I didn’t need to.

I could still feel him watching me.

I didn’t look back.

The wind picked up, slicing against my cheeks, turning my breath into thin clouds in the crisp air. My feet moved faster, carrying me away from the park, away from Randy’s lingering gaze, away from the crushing weight of everything I couldn’t say.

The campus blurred around me, students passing in flashes of laughter and chatter, faces I didn’t recognize. I kept my head down, my hands buried in my pockets, fighting the urge to run.

Calm down. Breathe. You’re safe. You’re safe.

But I wasn’t. I could feel it, that gnawing, twisting feeling in my gut. Like eyes watching me from the shadows. Like every step I took only dragged me further into the dark.

My vision blurred. Panic clawed at my chest, each breath coming faster, too fast—

“Y/N?”

The voice cut through the noise, warm and familiar, and I nearly collapsed with relief.

“Dewey?” I spun around, and there he was — Dewey Riley, with his ever-present limp and that concerned, gentle smile I’d come to trust so much.

But the smile faded as soon as he saw my face. “Whoa, hey, what’s wrong?”

“I… I don’t…” The words tangled, my chest heaving. “I don’t know. I just—”

“Okay, okay.” His hands settled on my shoulders, grounding me. “Breathe. You’re okay. Whatever’s going on, we’ll figure it out. I promise.”

Tears blurred my vision, and I hated it — hated how easily I crumbled, how the fear seemed to eat me alive. But Dewey’s touch was steady, his voice calm.

“Let’s get you off the street, huh?” He glanced around, then gestured toward a small, quiet café across the way. “Come on. Coffee’s on me.”

I nodded, letting him guide me, his hand light on my back. The warmth of the café wrapped around us, the smell of fresh coffee and cinnamon cutting through the fog in my head. Dewey led me to a corner booth, his concerned eyes never leaving my face.

I sank into the seat, wrapping my arms around myself. Dewey ordered two coffees, then slid into the seat across from me.

“You wanna talk about it?” he asked, his voice soft, patient.

I stared down at the table, tracing the faint scratches in the surface. “I… I don’t know where to start.”

“Anywhere you want.”

I bit my lip, trying to collect my thoughts. “Someone’s… someone’s watching me, Dewey. I got a call. And a note. And I saw—” I hesitated, the words feeling like poison. “I saw him. Ghostface. Outside my dorm.”

Dewey’s expression tightened, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I told myself I was just being paranoid, that it was all in my head, but… but it’s not.” My voice cracked. “It’s real. He’s real. And I don’t know what to do.”

The waitress brought our coffees, but I barely noticed. Dewey leaned forward, his face serious, his voice steady. “Okay. First thing — you’re not crazy. And you’re not alone. I believe you.”

A wave of relief washed over me, hot tears spilling down my cheeks. “Thank you.”

“Did you tell anyone else? Randy, maybe?”

I hesitated. “I… I tried. But he… he thinks I’m just scared. That I’m seeing things.”

Dewey frowned, his fingers tapping lightly against the table. “Look, I know it’s hard. After everything you’ve been through, nobody would blame you for being scared. But you know me, Y/N. I’d rather take a paranoid friend seriously than miss something important.”

I nodded, wiping at my eyes. “I feel like I’m losing it, Dewey. I don’t even know who I can trust anymore.”

He leaned back, his gaze softening. “Well, you can trust me. And you can trust Gale — though she’s off chasing another story right now. But that doesn’t mean you’re alone.”

A small, bitter laugh slipped out. “Gale’s always chasing a story.”

“Yeah, well, sometimes she’s right,” Dewey said with a wry smile. “But right now, this is about you. And making sure you’re safe.”

Safe.

The word felt hollow, like something I couldn’t quite reach.

“I don’t even feel safe in my own room,” I whispered. “He knows where I am. He’s watching me.”

“Then we’ll figure something out.” Dewey’s voice was firmer now, a quiet determination. “We’ll get you somewhere safe. Or I can stay with you for a while — if that makes you feel better.”

“You’d… you’d do that?”

He shrugged, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I’m not exactly swimming in plans. And I’d rather sleep in an uncomfortable dorm chair than leave you alone with this.”

The tension in my chest eased, just a little. “Thank you, Dewey.”

“Anytime.” He took a sip of his coffee, his eyes never leaving me. “But there’s one thing I need you to promise me.”

“Anything.”

“If you see him again — or if you get another call, another note — you tell me. Right away. Don’t keep it to yourself. Don’t try to handle it alone.”

I nodded, feeling a fragile spark of hope. “I promise.”

But even as I said it, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched — of someone just beyond the warmth of the café, hidden in the shadows, waiting.

And somewhere, beneath that fear, a gnawing question whispered:

Did Randy know? Did he believe me?

When Randy’s footsteps faded down the hall, I locked the door. Twice. Then dragged my desk chair in front of it for good measure. Stupid, maybe, but I didn’t care.

I sat on the bed, knees pulled to my chest, staring at the phone lying on the carpet where I’d dropped it last night.

Just looking at it made my skin crawl.

I should’ve called the police. Or at least told Randy about the call, about seeing Ghostface outside my window. But what would I even say?

“He’s back.”

“I saw him. I heard him.”

“Please believe me.”

They’d think I was losing it.

Maybe I was.

The hours crawled by, sunlight shifting across the room, but I didn’t move. Couldn’t. The fear wrapped itself around me like a too-tight blanket. Every tiny sound from the hallway made me flinch. A burst of laughter. The rush of water from the communal bathroom. The distant hum of the vending machine by the stairs.

All of it seemed too loud. Too close.

Eventually, I couldn’t stand it.

I stood up, pacing the tiny room, my fingers twisting in the hem of my sweatshirt. I needed… I didn’t even know what I needed. To feel like I wasn’t going crazy. To know someone else believed me. To breathe without feeling like I was choking.

My eyes flicked to the window again.

Still empty.

But the knot in my chest wouldn’t go away.

A muffled thump sounded in the hallway, and I froze.

Silence.

Then another thump, softer, like something heavy being dragged. I stepped closer to the door, every instinct screaming at me to stay back.

But I couldn’t.

Another thump.

I leaned toward the door, pressing my ear against the cool wood.

Silence.

Then, without warning, something slid under the door — a folded piece of paper, thin and wrinkled. It fluttered to the floor, white against the dull carpet.

My blood went cold.

I stared at it, too terrified to move.

Then the phone rang.

I nearly screamed.

It rang again, that same mechanical trill that felt like knives against my ears.

I turned slowly, eyes locked on it, my pulse pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat.

It rang again.

And again.

I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. My feet moved on their own, carrying me toward it. My hand shook as I reached down, fingers hovering over the receiver.

It rang again.

I snatched it up, pressing it to my ear. "H-Hello?"

A long, empty silence.

But no breathing this time. No mocking voice.

Just… nothing.

I forced myself to speak. "Who is this?"

The silence stretched on, thick and suffocating.

Then—

Click.

The line went dead.

I dropped the phone like it had burned me, stumbling back until my shoulders hit the wall.

My gaze fell to the note on the floor.

It was still there, untouched, waiting.

I didn’t want to look. Didn’t want to touch it. But I knew I had to.

I knelt, fingers trembling as I picked it up and unfolded it.

Only three words were written in thick, messy ink:

DID YOU TELL?

My heart stopped.

Did I tell?

Tell who? About what? About the call last night? About Ghostface?

About Randy?

The phone rang again.

I didn’t pick it up.

Didn’t even look at it.

Because I was already looking at the window — and my reflection stared back at me, pale and terrified.

But there was something else.

Just behind me.

A shadow in the glass.

Someone watching me.

I spun around, but the room was empty.

But I knew better now.

I was being watched.

And the game wasn’t over.

It was just beginning.

I backed away from the window, my legs hitting the edge of the bed, forcing me to sit. The note trembled in my hands, the ink blurring slightly as my grip tightened.

DID YOU TELL?

The words seemed to pulse, digging into my mind. Did I tell? Tell who? What did they mean? Was it about the call? About Randy? Was this some sick game, pushing me to doubt everything and everyone?

The phone sat on the floor, silent now, but its presence felt like a threat.

Maybe… maybe I should call someone. The police? No, they’d think I was losing it. Randy? He’d just tell me it was my mind playing tricks. That I was just scared. That I needed to calm down.

But I wasn’t calm. And I wasn’t crazy.

Not yet.

My eyes darted back to the window, searching for any flicker of movement, any shadow in the glass.

Nothing.

I stood and shoved the note into the top drawer of my desk, out of sight. Out of mind. But it didn’t feel like it. The words were burned into my brain.

I needed to get out. To breathe. To move. To be anywhere but trapped in this tiny room with shadows and silence pressing in from all sides.

My fingers fumbled as I grabbed my shoes, slipping them on without even tying the laces properly. I threw on my jacket, my heart thudding like a drumbeat against my ribs.

I unlocked the door, yanked the chair away, and stumbled out into the hallway. It was empty, a dull, lifeless stretch of carpet and flickering overhead lights.

But at least it wasn’t my room.

I made it halfway down the hall when I heard the door slam behind me.

I spun, but there was nothing. No one. Just the empty corridor.

I didn’t care. I ran.

My feet slapped against the tiles of the stairwell, the cold air rushing up to meet me as I burst out of the dormitory and into the courtyard. Sunlight washed over me, too bright, too sharp. I squinted, pulling my jacket tighter around myself, trying to remember how to breathe.

Students milled around in small groups, laughing, talking, going about their day like nothing was wrong. Like there wasn’t a threat lurking in the shadows, watching, waiting.

I needed somewhere safe. Somewhere familiar.

Randy.

Before I even realized it, my feet were already carrying me toward the student union. The place he always went between classes — sometimes even during classes, when he got bored and decided to skip. I pushed my way inside, the hum of conversation and the clatter of coffee mugs crashing over me.

And there he was.

Sitting by the window, a comic book spread out in front of him, a half-finished coffee steaming by his elbow.

Normal. Ordinary. Safe.

I almost tripped over my own feet rushing toward him.

"Randy," I blurted out, a little too loud, a little too desperate.

His head snapped up, his smile already forming — but it faded as soon as he saw my face. "Y/N? Hey, what—"

I collapsed into the seat across from him, trying to force air into my lungs. "I… I…" I didn’t even know where to start.

His expression tightened with worry. He leaned closer, his voice soft but urgent. "Hey. Hey, look at me. You’re okay. Just breathe."

But was I okay? Was I even safe with him?

I shoved the doubt away, clinging to the only solid thing in the chaos — Randy.

"I got a note," I whispered, my voice cracking. "Someone slipped it under my door. And the phone—it rang again. But there was no one there. Just… just silence."

Randy’s face went pale. "A note? What did it say?"

"‘Did you tell?’ That’s it. Just… just that."

He leaned back slightly, a frown creasing his forehead. "That’s… weird. Could be a prank. Some psycho trying to freak you out." He paused, his hand reaching across the table to cover mine. "But it’s okay. You’re here now. No one can get to you."

No one can get to me. Except you.

The thought hit me like a punch to the gut.

His thumb traced soft, soothing circles against the back of my hand, but now it felt different. Instead of comfort, it felt like a trap. Like a cage closing in.

I pulled my hand away, pretending to reach for my coffee.

Randy’s frown deepened, but he didn’t push. "Look, maybe we should just… get out of here for a bit. Go for a walk? Clear your head?"

"A walk?" I echoed, my voice shaky.

"Yeah. Just you and me. Fresh air. No creepy phone calls. No weird notes. Just… us."

He was smiling again, warm and gentle, the same smile that had always made me feel safe.

But now it felt like a mask.

I hesitated, and his smile slipped just a little. "Y/N… please. I hate seeing you like this. Just let me help you."

The familiar ache twisted in my chest — the same one that always hit me when I saw how much he cared.

Or… was it care? Or was it something else?

I forced a nod. "Okay. A walk sounds… nice."

His grin brightened instantly. "Awesome. Just give me a sec to close my tab."

He stood, waving over the barista, and I watched him, my fingers still trembling, my pulse refusing to slow.

A walk.

Alone. With him.

The boy I loved. The boy I trusted.

“This is it,” Rick said, reaching for his Colt.

“Let’s be smart about this,” Hershel muttered. “No one goes in hot.”

Rick opened the door. “I’m going in alone first.”

“I’m not lettin’ you go in there alone,” Daryl argued, his voice low and deadly. “We don’t know what the hell’s waitin’.”

Rick turned to him. “You’re staying outside with YN and Hershel. Watch my back.”

I didn’t love the plan, but I trusted Rick. I nodded once. “We got you.”

Rick pushed the door open and disappeared inside. I couldn’t stop the gnawing feeling in my gut. This whole place felt off. I scanned the tree line, then looked at Daryl.

He caught my eye. “Keep sharp.”

No more than a minute later, Andrea pulled up in another truck with Milton and Martinez. She jumped out and froze when she saw Rick’s group already here. Her eyes landed on me, wide with surprise.

“YN?” she said, walking toward us. “You came?”

I crossed my arms, wary. “Guess you didn’t think we’d show?”

“I didn’t think Rick would agree to this,” she admitted. “The Governor just wants to talk.”

“Does he?” Daryl muttered behind me. “Not sure he’s the talkin’ type.”

Andrea sighed and turned away. “Let’s just get this over with.”

She walked into the building with Milton and Martinez trailing her. Daryl and I exchanged a glance, then both turned our attention outward again, watching the perimeter. Every creak of wind, every rustle of brush had me reaching for my knife.

“You trust her?” I asked Daryl under my breath.

He glanced at me, jaw tight. “I trust her to fuck it up.”

I gave a short, humorless laugh. “Sounds about right.”

Time passed in quiet spurts. When Rick finally emerged, his face was unreadable. He didn’t speak right away.

“Let’s go,” he said gruffly.

Once we were in the truck again, he finally spoke. “He wants Michonne.”

The words hit the cabin like a gunshot.

“What?” I turned toward him. “He wants us to give her up?”

Rick didn’t answer right away. “Said if we give her over, he’ll back off.”

“He’s lyin’,” Daryl growled. “He ain’t gonna stop even if you hand her over in pieces.”

“He’s gonna kill us no matter what,” I said quietly. “He just wants us to make the first cut.”

Rick looked down at his hands. “I know.”

I met Daryl’s eyes in the rearview mirror. We both understood—there was no peace coming. Only war.

The engine rumbled the entire ride back, but none of us said a word.

Daryl sat next to me in the back seat, his arms folded across his chest, his jaw tight. Hershel was up front, eyes set straight ahead, like he was already trying to make peace with whatever Rick was planning. And Rick… he was stone. Just like always. But the kind of stone that’s been chipped away too many times.

We rolled through the prison gates, past Glenn and Maggie on watch, and into the yard where the others were already waiting. Carol, Beth, Carl, Michonne—they rushed toward us as we got out.

“What happened?” Carol asked, voice tight.

“Did he say anything?” Glenn added, stepping forward.

Rick didn’t answer right away. He just looked around at the group, then turned his eyes up to the guard tower. For a moment, I thought he might actually tell them the truth.

But instead, he just said, “We talked. He wants the prison. All of it.”

Everyone started talking at once—angry, scared, confused. I didn’t say anything. I just kept my eyes on Rick, because I knew that wasn’t all the Governor had said. Not even close.

He looked at Hershel. Just a glance. And I saw it—whatever the Governor had offered, Rick wasn’t ready to say it out loud yet.

Later, after we regrouped in the cell block, the group started laying out weapons, planning watch shifts, going over escape routes like we always did. I kept looking over at Rick. And when he finally walked off toward the upper level, I followed.

I hung back in the shadows as Rick and Hershel talked quietly.

“If we give him Michonne… maybe that buys us some time,” Rick said.

My stomach dropped.

Hershel didn’t answer right away. “You really think he’ll keep his word?”

Rick looked more tired than I’d ever seen him. “I don’t know. But if there’s a chance—if it means keeping Judith safe, Carl, everyone—we have to consider it.”

“And YN?” Hershel asked. “You think she’d be okay with that?”

I stepped forward then. “She’s not.”

They both turned to me, startled.

“Michonne’s one of us,” I said, staring directly at Rick. “You think giving her to that man is gonna save us? He’ll kill her. And then he’ll come back for the rest of us.”

“YN—” Rick started.

“No,” I cut him off. “Don’t even try to justify it. You know what kind of man he is. There’s no deal that ends with us safe and him satisfied.”

Rick’s face hardened. “You think I don’t know that? I’m trying to keep us alive.”

“So am I,” I shot back. “But not like this.”

Hershel looked between us, a heaviness in his eyes. “We’ve all lost things. People. But this… this isn’t the way.”

Rick didn’t say anything else. He just turned and walked away, leaving me and Hershel in silence.

No one knew about the offer yet—not even Daryl. But that secret was already starting to rot from the inside.

I sat near the wall, watching the others move, talk, plan.

Because whatever came next, I knew one thing for sure:

We weren’t just fighting the Governor anymore.

We rode through the front gates slowly. There was a rusted sign that read Go Big Horns! still bolted above the arch. Everything else was still. Too still. No infected, no Fireflies, no people. Just the wind whistling through shattered windows and the occasional creak of old metal.

“Where the hell is everybody?” I muttered, shifting uneasily in the saddle.

Joel glanced around, jaw tight. “Let’s find the science building. That’s where they said they’d be.”

It took us a while, weaving through the empty campus, checking door after door. We eventually found what looked like the right building—Science and Medical Research Center—painted in big, faded letters across the stone facade. Joel dismounted first and tied up the horses while I helped Ellie down. She adjusted her backpack and kept close, her eyes scanning the halls as we stepped inside.

It was dark. Dusty. Papers scattered across the floor, overturned desks, broken glass.

But no people.

“Looks like they left in a hurry,” I whispered, shining my flashlight along a wall covered in peeling Firefly posters.

Joel moved ahead of us, rifle at the ready. We searched floor after floor until we found what looked like a lab—glass walls, computers, and a whiteboard filled with equations. There were signs of life. Coffee mugs, papers, beds made out of blankets. Someone had been here.

“Think they moved on?” Ellie asked, her voice low.

Joel looked over a map someone had pinned to the wall. Red markers. Scribbled notes.

“Salt Lake City,” he muttered. “Looks like that’s where they went.”

I exhaled, the weight of that realization sinking into my bones. Another journey. Another maybe. Another chance to not find what we were looking for.

And then—crash.

From below.

Joel’s head snapped toward the door. “Stay here.”

“Like hell,” I said, already moving with him. Ellie was right behind us.

The three of us moved fast down the stairs, following the noise. Turned a corner—and froze.

Raiders.

Shit.

They hadn’t seen us yet, but they would. Joel moved quick, pulled us into a side room, and closed the door gently.

“There’s at least four of them,” he whispered. “Armed.”

My heart was pounding.

“What do we do?” Ellie asked, gripping her knife.

Joel looked at us both, then toward the door.

“We fight.”

Joel moved first. Silent but sharp, like a shadow with teeth. He signaled for us to stay behind, but I wasn’t about to let him walk out alone. I drew my pistol and nodded at Ellie—stay low, stay quiet.

From our position, I could hear their voices now—muffled, cocky, laughing about finding fresh supplies upstairs. They hadn’t seen the horses outside yet. That was about to change.

Joel slipped out, took cover behind a busted vending machine, and waited. I followed a few steps behind, crouching low behind a flipped-over couch in the hallway. Ellie stayed in the stairwell, knife drawn, watching our backs.

The first guy walked into view, rifle slung low, not even paying attention.

Idiot.

Joel didn’t give him the chance to realize his mistake. A quick swing of his arm and the butt of Joel’s rifle cracked against the side of the guy’s skull. He dropped without a sound.

But the thud echoed.

“Mike?” one of the others called.

Shit.

Things moved fast after that. The second guy came running around the corner—gun up—and I fired before he saw Joel. My shot clipped his shoulder, but Joel was already on him. Two quick shots. One to drop him, one to keep him down.

Then the third came. This one wasn’t stupid—he took cover, fired back.

The hallway lit up in flashes of gunfire. Joel ducked back, cursing.

“They’re flanking,” he warned.

“Not if I get behind them first,” I said, already moving.

I knew the layout enough now—we’d looped through this building once already. I ran through a side hallway, boots quiet on the tile, and came up behind the last guy as he was creeping toward Joel’s position. He didn’t expect me.

I didn’t hesitate.

One clean shot.

He went down.

When I made it back around the corner, Joel was standing over the one I’d clipped, panting, blood on his knuckles. He looked up at me—worried, then relieved.

“You okay?” he asked, voice rough.

“I’m good,” I said, stepping closer.

Ellie came out behind us a second later, eyes wide but steady.