#suicidemission

You were born into the dark. Not metaphorically, though the world was already ash and bone by the time your lungs drew their first ragged breath, but literally. No blinding hospital lights, no sterile nursery cribs. No handhelds flashing from proud fathers. You were born in the backroom of a storage facility just outside your hometown, your mother gritting her teeth through labor while three people she barely trusted whispered panicked instructions beside her.

The only light came from a cracked skylight above, stained with moss and the shadow of rot. And when you opened your eyes, they stayed closed.

You never saw her face. She died minutes later. And you don’t remember her voice, either, though your father used to say it sounded like the wind through chainlink. Soft but cutting. He doesn’t say that anymore. Not because he forgot. But because some memories hurt less in silence.

There were a few truths you learned young. First: the world doesn’t slow down for you. Second: silence doesn’t mean safety. Third: people are kind, sometimes, but only until the kindness costs them something.

But your dad? He was different. The kind of different that lasts even in a world like this. He didn’t look at you like a burden. Didn’t speak about your blindness with that hushed tone people reserve for death or weakness. He never flinched when you stumbled, and he never overreached to help you unless you asked.

“You’re not broken,” he’d say, tying your boots the first time you tried them on. “Just tuned to a different station.”

He called it that often, your head. Your world. A different station. And maybe he was right. You never missed the sight of things. Never grieved the loss. You couldn’t lose what you never had. While other kids were learning colors and shapes, you were learning textures and distances, cataloguing spaces by sound and vibration. You could tell a person's weight by the way the floor groaned under them. You could tell their mood by the pattern of their breath. You never needed eyes to see when someone was lying.

But still, the world was cruel. And crueler to those who asked for space or help. So your father kept you close, moving often, bartering his skills, first as a runner, then as a mechanic, then as something between soldier and scavenger, just to keep your heads above water. But it was never quite enough.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

The moment it all changed was the day your father got wind that Isaac Dixon was alive. Not just alive, but building something real. Not a settlement of wishful thinkers with garden beds and hand-sewn blankets. Not a group of half-starved zealots clinging to some repurposed scripture. A force. An army. One with rules. One that could protect its own.

Your father knew Isaac from before. Before the fall. They weren’t best friends or anything like that, not then, but they were close enough to recognize each other without weapons raised. Isaac had respected him back then. Trusted him. And that trust? It carried over.

It took a month to track the WLF down. Another week to convince the guards at the outer wall not to shoot. But the moment your father said his name, everything shifted. Someone fetched Isaac. There were muffled words, soft but urgent. And then Isaac stepped out, and you felt your father relax beside you. Shoulders dropping. Breath even.

“Holy shit,” Isaac had murmured. “Didn’t think I’d see your face again.”

And your dad, with that dry edge to his voice, answered, “Wasn’t sure you’d made it.”

Isaac didn’t hesitate. He looked at you next. Not with pity. Not even confusion. Just... calculation. A soft exhale. Then a nod. “She yours?”

Your dad rested a hand on your shoulder. “She’s mine.”

“Then you’re in.”

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

They gave you a room the same night. Not far from your father’s, though you insisted on having your own. You liked your space. Liked knowing where things were. And though the beds were hard and the lights always buzzing overhead, it was the safest you’d felt in years.

You didn’t go on patrols, not at first. You weren’t assigned to a station, weren’t handed a rifle and told to “stand watch.” But you weren’t dismissed either. People stared, sure. Whispered. But nobody said anything out loud. That was the thing about the WLF, respect was earned, not handed down. And over time, you found your rhythm.

You helped organize supplies. Catalogued ammo and gear by weight and count. You carved identifiers into storage racks. People caught on quick, your hands could find things faster than their eyes could. And after a while, they stopped treating you like dead weight. Some even came to you for help.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

One of the first to actually talk to you was Manny.

Loud, cocky, full of shit in a way that made you grin even when you didn’t want to. He was always trying to flirt, but never in a way that felt mean. He liked making people laugh. And you? You were a great excuse for him to practice charm without consequences.

But the one who mattered most, the one you hadn’t expected, was Abby Anderson.

She never said much at first. You could tell she didn’t quite know what to do with you. She wasn’t cruel, but she wasn’t gentle either. You liked that. The first time you heard her speak, her voice came from across the mess hall, low, even, clipped. “Pass the salt.”

The sound of her was sharp. Controlled. You pictured her then: tall, probably. Strong. Someone who could silence a room without raising her voice. And you were right. Not long after, Manny introduced you two. She didn’t shake your hand, didn’t lean close or adjust her tone. She just said your name. Once. And then hers.

“Abby.”

Simple. Like she didn’t think you needed more. Like she trusted you’d figure it out.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

The shift between you wasn’t fast. It came in layers.

First, it was food. Someone would hand you a tray, and by the time you sat, a spoon or fork would already be pressed into your palm. No word. Just a warm hand nudging it there.

Then it was doorways. Abby would clear her throat softly right before you passed through, just enough to signal she was holding it open. You never tripped. You never needed guiding. But she was there, anyway, hovering without suffocating. Present without pity.

Your father noticed. Of course he did.

“She watches out for you,” he muttered once while sharpening a blade. “More than most.”

You shrugged. “She’s like that with her friends.”

But you weren’t really her friend. Not yet. Just someone she didn’t ignore.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

It changed the night the thunder rolled in.

Salt Lake didn’t get many storms, not the loud kind. But that night was different. Dry heat all day, then pressure dropped. Air thickened. Then the crack of it, sudden, sharp, right above the compound. You sat bolt upright in your bunk before the echo finished bouncing off the walls.

You weren’t ashamed. Not really. You’d hated thunder since you were a kid. Not because of the sound itself, but because of what it did to everyone else. The panic. The shouting. The fear of a breach. You couldn’t see their faces, but you could feel chaos rising in their bones like steam.

You curled up. Breathed deep. Tried to bury yourself in the smell of canvas and dust.

Then the door opened.

You recognized her footsteps immediately. Boots off, bare socks. The way she stood in the frame like she was giving you a second to say no. You didn’t.

She crossed the room without speaking. Sat on the edge of the bed. You didn’t touch. Didn’t even face her. Just sat there, both of you, with the thunder rolling outside and the whole world tensed like a fist.

She didn’t say you were brave. Didn’t say you were safe. She just stayed. And when the second wave cracked, louder than before, her hand drifted, barely brushing your shoulder. You didn’t flinch.

That was the night you knew she cared. Not because of what she said. But because she didn’t leave.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

A couple months later

You knew she was coming before she knocked.

Not because of some dramatic intuition, or any of the things people romanticize about blind senses, but because Abby had a specific way of arriving. A rhythm. Her boots landed harder than most, but not heavy. Steady. A controlled sort of weight. Like she measured every footfall, like even the ground needed her permission.

There was a pause outside your door. You were still sitting on your cot, hands running slowly over the edge of your thigh holster, checking that your knife was seated correctly. Not fidgeting, just grounding. You had a ritual for mornings when the base felt loud before it was. There’d been a shift in the air since sunrise. A tension in the voices passing the hall. Even the pipes seemed restless, hissing more than usual.

She knocked. Just once.

The knock was soft but deliberate. Not like the clattering urgency of a guard with bad news, not like the nervous tapping of a kid wanting to borrow a weapon. It’s steady, familiar.

Abby.

“Hey,” her voice cuts through the stale air, low and steady, carrying the weight of quiet authority mixed with something softer, something careful.

You stood before answering. Didn’t speak, just opened it. Her scent hit you first. Clean sweat. Leather. Something cold underneath, like morning air clinging to skin.

“Put your boots on,” she said simply. You heard the gear on her, rifle over shoulder, straps creaking with movement, the dull clack of buckles catching against her chestplate. But her voice didn’t carry urgency. Just that quiet kind of decisiveness she wore like second skin.

“Why?”

She shifted. You could hear the rub of her gloves as she flexed her fingers.

“Fresh air.”

That was code, now. She never said walk, patrol, or escape. Just fresh air. Like it was a shared thing. Yours and hers.

You bent to pull your boots from under the bed. Fingers curling around the rough leather and pulling them on with practiced ease. Your fingertips find the laces, working them tight before sliding your feet in, molding yourself into the familiar weight and feel. The boots ground you, their rigid sole against your skin, the way the leather creaks just slightly as you flex your ankles.

When you stood again, she was still in the doorway. Not in it, exactly, just beside it, the way she always stood when she wasn’t sure if you wanted her in. She never crossed thresholds without being told to. You liked that about her. Liked that she didn’t fill a room until invited. You nodded once. “Ready.”

Her presence fills the narrow hallway. The scrape of her boots on concrete is a steady rhythm, a heartbeat alongside your own.

You reach out, and her hand closes around your wrist, not squeezing, just steadying. You let her guide you to the door. She doesn’t walk fast. She adjusts without asking. The first time she did it, weeks ago, you’d almost snapped at her. You hated being coddled. But she wasn’t slowing for you. She was slowing with you. Matching pace like it was instinct.

You can tell when she is armed differently. Today isn’t standard. You counted at least two guns, one on her hip, one across her back, and probably a combat knife at her thigh. She was always geared up around you. Never said why. Probably thought you didn’t notice.

Isaac must’ve signed off. She wouldn’t be taking you out otherwise.

You tilted your head toward her. “Did you ask permission?”

“Course I did,” she muttered. “You think I’d take you out there without a green light?”

You could hear the grin in her voice. That smug little edge she got when she knew she was playing by the book but still felt like she was getting away with something.

“He give you the usual speech?”

“Something about responsibility and discretion,” she said. “I stopped listening after that.”

You snorted once, quiet. She liked that sound, though she never acknowledged it out loud.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

Outside, the air hits your face. Dry, sharp, salted with the faintest trace of something green, maybe pine or sagebrush carried in on a dry wind. The sky is a dull grey, heavy with clouds, but there’s no rain yet. You take a deep breath, filling your lungs with the wild openness you rarely feel.

Abby’s voice is close. “We’ll stick to the road for a while. Not far. Just enough to get some fresh air.”

You nod, as you’re already moving forward, your feet finding the cracked pavement, the broken glass crunching beneath your boots.

Abby walks beside you, her steps strong but measured, never too fast, always attentive. She’s silent at first, letting the sounds of the world fill the space between you. Distant birds calling, the occasional hum of a passing vehicle far off. The faint buzz of electricity from a downed powerline.

You lean slightly into her side when you sense rougher terrain ahead, a patch of gravel, maybe broken asphalt. She adjusts, stepping just ahead, holding out a steadying hand. Her fingers brush yours briefly. Not enough to startle, but enough to remind you she’s there. The heat of her skin transfers through the thin fabric of your sleeve. You hold onto it, steady and reassuring.

The jeep was already running when you two arrived. She helped you into the passenger side without touching you. Just opened the door, waited. You counted the seconds by her breathing. Not impatient. Not expectant. Just there.

The seat was cracked leather. Familiar. You ran your hand over the dash as she climbed in, noting the old radio toggle still half-broken, the duct tape on the gearshift.

She drove without music. Always did.

The ride out was quiet, save for the engine hum and the occasional crunch of gravel. You didn’t ask where she was taking you. You never did. It didn’t matter. The landscape changed every time, but the ritual was the same. She’d find a place she thought was safe enough. You’d walk. She’d track surroundings while you read them, by sound, by scent, by air.

Sometimes she talked. Most times she didn’t.

You liked the silence with her.

When the engine finally cut, you sat still for a moment. Let the absence of vibration settle in your bones. Then came the world, wind through tall trees, distant crows, the creak of old branches above. Pine needles, damp earth, the cold bite of elevation in your lungs.

You turned your head slightly. “Forest?”

“More or less,” Abby said. She was already at your side, metal clinking faintly as she stretched. “We’re west of base. Still inside safe perimeter.”

You nodded, opening your door before she could do it. The ground was uneven, but familiar. You stepped out, feeling the crunch of leaves and grit beneath your soles. You liked this texture better than concrete. It had life in it.

“Walk slow,” she murmured. “We’ll go maybe half a mile in.”

You heard the quiet click of her safety. Off, not on. Something about that both comforted and annoyed you. “Expecting trouble?”

“No.”

“Then why—”

“Habit.”

You didn’t push further. You never did with her. She spoke when she needed to. The rest came through presence.

She walked a half-step ahead, but not blocking. You tracked her by sound, the swish of her pants, the occasional branch shifting against her shoulder. She didn’t talk much during these walks, and you didn’t need her to. You could feel her. That was enough.

The forest opened slowly. Wider space. Less clutter underfoot. You tapped your fingers against your thigh once, three beats. A habit you’d picked up years ago. Calibration. Sound bouncing back from trees. You counted the seconds until the echo softened.

“Field?” you asked.

“Yeah. Cleared land. Probably old farmland before the fall.”

There was a breeze here. Colder, sharper. It moved your hair, slid between layers of your jacket. You adjusted your footing.

Abby stopped. You felt the absence of her motion before you heard it.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she said. Then, “You okay?”

You tilted your head toward her. “You always ask that.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

She exhaled slowly. Not annoyed. More like she was working something out in her head.

“’Cause sometimes you lie,” she said finally.

You huffed. “Sometimes you do too.”

She let that hang for a second. Then chuckled once. A low sound, private. “Fair.”

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

You ended up sitting on a fallen tree, damp bark rough against your palms. Abby stood nearby, shifting occasionally. You could hear her cleaning something, probably her rifle. The cloth against metal was slow, even. Not really about maintenance. Just busy hands.

“You ever wish you could see?” she suddenly asked, voice quiet.

You turned your head toward her. Not startled, just surprised she’d asked. “No,” you said truthfully. “I think it’d make things harder.”

“Why?”

You shrugged. “I’d have to unlearn too much.”

Abby was quiet again. But her voice, when it came, was softer than usual.

“Most people want more.”

“I’ve had enough.”

That silenced held for a long time. You didn’t fill it. She didn’t either. The wind moved. A crow cried somewhere overhead. You could feel her shift closer, not touching, not even brushing, but nearer than before.

When she finally spoke again, it was without preamble. “I didn’t just bring you out here for the air.”

You nodded. “Figured.”

“I just... I needed out of there.”

You didn’t say anything. You just sat there with her, two women in a dead world, breathing the same bitter wind, pretending for one quiet moment that everything outside the trees didn’t exist.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

The ride back was quieter than the way out.

You stayed still in the passenger seat, hands resting in your lap, the leather cold beneath your fingers. The world outside the windshield blurred into the low hum of the jeep’s engine and the muted whisper of tires on gravel. Abby’s presence filled the small space beside you like a solid shape, grounding.

When the jeep finally eased into the base, the scent of dust and wood smoke tangled with something faintly metallic and antiseptic. You heard the engine slow, then cut off.

“Here we are,” Abby said softly. She unbuckled her seatbelt with a muted snap.

You nodded, steadying yourself with a hand on the door handle. The seatbelt tugged slightly as you shifted. The cold metal of the door frame greeted your palm when you stepped out.

The ground beneath your boots crunched with grit and small stones. You took a slow breath, savoring the shift from open air back into the enclosed safety of the base. Abby followed close, close enough that the scrape of her boots against gravel was a heartbeat behind yours.

You sat down on the edge of your cot inside your room, the rough wood cold against your bare calves. Slowly, methodically, you began unlacing your boots, fingers working the knots loose with practiced care. The leather was stiff from the day’s walk, slightly damp with sweat, and it made the familiar creak as you pulled your feet free.

Abby stayed standing nearby, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, her breath steady and quiet. She was watching, not with eyes, but with presence. You felt it as strongly as if she had a hand on your shoulder.

“Mind if I check you for wounds?” Her voice was low, careful, almost hesitant.

You hesitated. You were used to managing on your own, accustomed to dismissing small aches and bruises like they were nothing. But something in the way she asked made it feel less like an obligation and more like a favor.

“Okay,” you said after a pause.

She stepped closer. You felt her breath on the back of your neck, the heat of her body a tangible comfort. Abby’s hands were rough, calloused but gentle as she reached toward your calves, sliding fingertips along your skin.

She paused where the fabric of your pants was damp. Her fingers pressed lightly, searching. “Nothing here,” she said, voice steady.

You shifted your foot, flexing your toes. She moved to your ankles, tracing the edges of your boots’ sole marks left faintly on your skin. “Any pain?” she asked.

You shook your head.

Her fingers moved up your calves slowly, carefully, her touch never rushing or sharp. When she reached your knees, you felt her fingers press with gentle pressure against the scrapes and bruises there, small, faded, mostly superficial.

“Looks like you took a few hits,” she murmured, her voice low.

You shrugged, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Still,” she said, “doesn’t mean I’m not going to look.” She lifted your pant leg a little, feeling for anything missed. The fabric shifted against your skin, cool and soft.

Her hands brushed a faint scar you hadn’t noticed in weeks, old and barely raised. “Here,” she said quietly, thumb stroking the edge. “This one’s healing. Did you get it on patrol?”

“No, before,” you said. “Doesn’t matter.”

Abby didn’t press. Just nodded once, a quiet acknowledgment.

When she moved to check your arms, you felt the air shift as her body circled, careful not to startle. She paused, fingertips tracing a faint bruise near your wrist.

“Here,” she said softly, “this one’s fresh. You sure you didn’t feel it before?”

You hesitated, then shook your head again. “No. Maybe just didn’t notice.”

She pressed the bruise lightly, gauging your reaction. “You sure?”

“Yes.”

She exhaled slowly, like she’d been holding her breath. Her hands retreated. “Good,” she said finally. “Because if you’d been hurt and didn’t say something...” Her voice trailed off.

You didn’t ask her to finish.

Instead you rubbed your feet slowly, feeling the tired ache behind your arches. You shifted your weight on the cot, the wood groaning softly under you. The quiet was thick between you two, but it didn’t feel empty. Abby was still there, close enough that you could hear the soft scrape of her boots against the floor.

“Want me to get you some water?” she asked after a moment, voice low and steady.

You nodded, grateful for the simple offer. The air inside the base was dry, and after the walk, your throat felt tight.

She moved quietly toward the corner where a battered metal jug sat beside a cracked basin. You heard the click of the lid opening and the soft swish of liquid inside.

When she came back, she held the jug just out of your reach, letting you guide your hand until your fingers curled around the cool metal.

The water was colder than you expected, sliding down your throat in sharp, refreshing gulps.

You heard her shift again, closer now. “Feeling sore anywhere else?” Abby asked softly.

You paused, letting your fingers brush absently over your calf, feeling the faint pulse beneath the skin. “Just tired,” you said finally. “And maybe... stiff.”

Abby hummed. You could hear the breath in her voice, steady and careful, like she was measuring every word. “I can help with that,” she said. “I know some stretches. Nothing fancy, but it might loosen you up.”

You hesitated, not sure if you wanted to bother her. But there was something in her tone, no pressure, no demand, just quiet willingness.

“Okay,” you said.

She moved around you slowly, the scrape of her boots barely audible now. Then her hands settled on your shoulders, strong and warm, grounding.

The first touch startled you slightly, but she stayed gentle, firm without pressure. Her fingers kneaded the tension out carefully, feeling the muscles beneath. You breathed out slowly, letting yourself relax into the touch. Her hands shifted to your neck, tracing the tense lines there. You felt the weight of her presence, steady and calm, like a shield against the quiet ache in your body.

“Good,” she murmured. “Just slow, steady. Let me know if it hurts.”

You shook your head, words unnecessary.

Her fingers pressed into your trapezius muscles again, moving with purpose but never harsh. She knew you well enough to sense your limits, adjusting instinctively.

After a few minutes, she eased back, her hands sliding down your arms to your wrists, stretching gently.

“Better?” she asked softly.

You nodded, the tightness in your shoulders easing just a little.

“Thanks, Abby,” you said quietly.

She shifted again, this time closer, her breath brushing against your ear. “You’re welcome.”

For a long moment, the two of you just sat there, the small room filled with the quiet sounds of your breathing and the distant hum of the base settling down for the night.

Then, Abby spoke again, voice barely above a whisper. “You know... I don’t mind this.”

The words hung in the air, soft and heavy. You didn’t answer right away, just felt the steady warmth of her hands resting lightly on your arms.

“I mean... being here with you. Helping. Watching out.” Her fingers twitched slightly, like she wasn’t sure if she’d said too much. But you reached up, placing your hand over hers, the skin rough beneath your palm.

“Me too,” you said.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

The briefing had been brutal. Isaac’s voice was sharp, clipped, laced with the weight of something too dangerous to sugarcoat. The map spread out on the rough wooden table showed a no-man’s land, an area deep into Seattle’s outskirts, crawling with hostile factions and infected alike. The mission was clear: scout, retrieve critical supplies, maybe gather intel, but above all, survive.

No one called it what it was, no one said “suicide mission” out loud. But the word hung in the air between the lines, heavy and undeniable.

When Abby heard the orders, the hard set of her jaw tightened.

“You’re going,” Isaac said, meeting her eyes with an icy calm.

Abby didn’t argue.

But later, when she came to you, you felt it. her usual steady, unflappable armor cracked just enough for you to glimpse the worry beneath.

“You’re not coming,” she said before you could say anything. Her voice was low, almost fierce. “This isn’t safe. It’s—” She swallowed the words, but the meaning was clear.

Suicide mission.

She didn’t want you there. Not just because it was dangerous, but because she couldn’t bear the thought of watching you die on her watch. You stayed silent, the weight of her words settling between you like thick fog.

“I’m not going to leave you alone, Abby,” you said finally, voice steady. “Not on something like this.”

She looked at you, eyes dark and heavy. “This isn’t about what you want. It’s about keeping you safe.”

You let the silence stretch. You knew she was right, this was dangerous. But the thought of sitting back while Abby risked everything? It was unbearable.

Abby moved around the small room methodically, gearing up for the mission.

You stayed quiet, your breathing steady, muscles coiled with determination. You knew she didn’t want you there. Hell, she’d said as much. But there was no way you were letting her go alone. Not on this.

You waited until you heard the faint clink of metal, her weapons being checked, secured. The subtle rustle of her jacket sliding over her shoulders. The sharp click as she tightened her boots. Abby’s movements were efficient, practiced, almost ritualistic, the kind of focus that made you hesitate for a heartbeat, but then you moved.

You slipped silently through the narrow hallway, toes skimming over the rough concrete floor. The scent of old leather, metal, and the faint musk of dirt hung in the air. Your fingers trailed along the wall as you navigated, every texture a guide. You passed the common room where the others were nowhere in sight, then the faint echo of voices drifting from somewhere distant.

You reached the garage door. Your fingers found the cold metal handle; the lock was simple, Isaac’s crew kept it functional, not fancy. You lifted it carefully, the slow creak muted in the thick evening stillness. Outside, the air was cooler, carrying the scent of dry dust and pine.

Your fingers brushed along the dusty frame of the car, a tough old thing with battle scars, dents, and a battered paint job peeling in places. You slid around the back, feeling the shape of the trunk, and then moved to the side door.

The car was unlocked. You smiled a little, thankful for the small mercy. You opened the door quietly, the soft thud almost swallowed by the night. You slid inside the backseat, the worn leather creaking softly beneath you.

Your heart hammered, not from fear, but from fierce resolve. You settled in low, trying to find a comfortable spot. The faint scent of Abby’s sweat and earth mingled with the oil and old fabric. You wrapped your arms around yourself, the chill inside the car reminding you that you’d chosen this willingly.

You heard the front door slam behind you, Abby was coming. You held your breath as the driver’s side door swung open and shut, the sound sharp in the quiet. The engine rumbled to life, a low, vibrating growl beneath your back.

You stayed perfectly still, listening. The seatbelt clicked in, then the soft scrape of Abby’s boots on the pedals. Then the car rolled forward, tires crunching over gravel.

For nearly ten minutes you remained silent, every sound magnified in the cramped space. You felt every vibration through the seat, the subtle changes as Abby shifted gears, the steady rhythm of the engine.

Then, suddenly, a sharp intake of breath came from the front. “Wait...” Abby’s voice was tense, uncertain.

You shifted slightly, the worn leather creaking beneath you, and you heard her stiffen.

“Shit.”

Her hands gripped the wheel tighter. “What the fuck are you doing back there?”

You swallowed, your fingers curling into the seat fabric. “I’m not letting you go alone,” you said quietly.

There was a long pause, then a soft exhale. “Goddamn it,” Abby muttered. You heard her lean back slightly, the leather seat creaking under her weight. “Get up here.”

Your hands moved quickly, feeling your way to the front seat as Abby reached over and unlatched the back door. The cold night air brushed against your face as you climbed out, the gravel crunching beneath your boots. Abby caught your arm as you settled in beside her, her grip firm but not harsh. “You’re impossible,” she said softly.

You smiled. “Yeah, well. So are you.”

The car slid back onto the road, the headlights piercing the gathering dark.

You woke to the thud of heavy footsteps moving across the room, deliberate, no hurry but no softness either. The kind of steps you’d come to know as Abby’s: solid, weight set through her heels, like every stride was meant to carry something. You heard the scrape of fabric over wood, the dull clunk of something set down, then a low grunt as she shoved something out of the way.

You pushed yourself upright slowly, bracing one palm against the floor to orient yourself. The faint scent of leather and faint metal oil drifted from where her gear must’ve been laid out. She must’ve heard the sound of you sitting up, because her movement stopped mid-shove.

“You’re up?” she said, voice dropping as if it wasn’t a question she really needed to ask. Before you could answer, her boots crossed the floor toward you in a quick, steady rhythm. She crouched down in front of you, the warm bulk of her body folding into your space without hesitation. Heat radiated off her jacket, still holding the ghost of her own body warmth from whatever work she’d been doing. You felt the air shift with her presence, her shadow against you in the way sound seemed to dampen for a heartbeat.

“We’re heading out soon,” she said, low and practical, the kind of tone that made you think she’d already been awake for hours. “You gotta get your stuff together. We won’t be coming back here.”

“Right,” you murmured, rubbing your palms over your thighs, waking up your hands before you started moving. “Just… point me where you want it all?”

She shifted back enough for you to hear her adjust her stance, boots scraping faintly against the floor. “Your pack’s at your two o’clock. About an arm’s length.”

You reached for it, fingertips brushing the familiar worn canvas, and pulled it close. “Got it.”

“Good,” she said, softer now. There was a pause, one of those Abby-pauses you’d learned meant she was watching you, gauging if you actually needed her to step in or not. She didn’t move right away, letting you feel your way through the first few motions on your own.

You started packing by touch. You slipped each item inside, tightening the straps without looking.

A few minutes passed before her voice came again, closer this time. “Mind if I…?” Her hand brushed lightly over your forearm, her knuckles barely grazing before she took hold. The warmth of her fingers was steady, and the grip was firm enough to anchor but not control.

“Yeah,” you said, letting her guide your hand toward something.

“This one’s your extra sweater. I rolled it tight for you already,” she explained, pressing the soft, bundled shape into your palms.

You stuffed it into the top of the bag, and she stayed near, her knee brushing yours whenever she shifted to grab something else. Abby didn’t rush you; her movements matched yours, waiting until you zipped a pocket before placing the next thing into your hand.

You reached for the last strap, fingers brushing the rough fabric, but before you could pinch it too hard, Abby’s hand covered yours. Her fingertips were rough and calloused from years of work, but her palm pressed warm and steady against yours, guiding your grip with a careful gentleness.

“There,” she said, her voice softer now, almost a whisper. “All set.”

You let your shoulders drop, the tension easing out of your back. “Thanks.”

She gave the bag on your shoulder one last, unnecessary tug, as if testing the buckles she’d just secured. You felt the faint scrape of her boots against the wooden floor, then her palm settled firm and steady between your shoulder blades.

“C’mon,” Abby murmured, her voice low and certain. Her hand stayed in place, a steady weight that nudged you forward more than her words did. “There’s a lot of holes out here,” she added quietly, not scolding but warning, like she’d already memorized every uneven step ahead.

You nodded once, keeping your stride measured so you could match hers. Her palm moved with you, never pushing, just maintaining that point of contact like a tether. The cold air hit you in the face the moment you stepped outside, sharp enough to make your nose sting. You reached out with your free hand, fingers brushing along the rough, flaking surface of the wall beside you.

“Straight ahead for now,” Abby’s voice came soft and steady, low against the whispering wind. Her hand rested firm and warm on your back, a quiet anchor as you moved forward. “The wall’s gonna curve left in about three steps.”

You trusted her without hesitation. You could feel her presence, the steady weight of her hand a map against the uncertainty beneath your feet. The ground was uneven, the snow muffling sound, but the rough wood of the wall beside you was constant; solid, reliable, like Abby herself.

As you took the next step, your body began to shift, instinctively leaning into the curve she’d warned you about. You sensed her attention tighten, the pressure of her palm on your back deepening just enough to catch the change. It wasn’t just guidance, it was understanding. You weren’t alone in this.

You moved slower, savoring the moment, the silent conversation between you. The wall bent gradually, a gentle arc that framed the path ahead but also felt like a boundary, something enclosing you both in this quiet space. You reached out, fingers grazing the wood, rough and cold, grounding you. Abby’s hand remained steady, a warm contrast, reassuring.

Then, somewhere just to your right, you heard her boots crunching deeper into the snow, a sudden scrape breaking the quiet. A sharp inhale followed.

You couldn’t help but smirk. “Careful, I'm starting to think you’re the blind one.”

There was a pause, filled only by the sound of your breathing and the faint rustle of the wind through bare branches, before she shot back, voice teasing, “Funny. Keep talkin’ and we’ll see who falls first.”

You chuckled, “I don’t know, sounded like it was almost you.”

“Almost,” she repeated, dry but with a breathy laugh hidden beneath the words. The next step caught you unprepared. Your boot snagged on something, a rock or a patch of ice hidden just beneath the snow’s surface, and suddenly your balance tipped, stomach flipping in a quick, startled jolt.

You heard the low, satisfied sound in her throat. “Mm. What was that?”

You bit back a grin, pressing your lips together. “That was—” you cut yourself off, shaking your head. “Shut up.”

Her chuckle was quiet but warm, almost lost in the wind. She steadied you with a subtle shift of her hand, fingers spreading wider over your back until you were upright again.

The air outside had grown noticeably colder, carrying that distinct, powdery scent of fresh snow, like the world was quietly tucking itself in beneath a soft white blanket. Tiny pinpricks of ice began to dance across your cheeks, sharp but almost tender, tapping lightly against the fabric of your jacket. The wind curled through your hair with a biting edge, and without thinking, you tucked your chin deeper into your collar, seeking whatever warmth you could find.

“Storm’s coming,” Abby said, her voice rising slightly, cutting through the gusts like a steady beacon. It wasn’t the edge of worry in her tone, more like an observation stored away for later, something practical and factual. “Isaac figured it’d hit by afternoon.”

You hesitated, the question hanging in the cold air. “Think he’s right?”

Her breath came out in a small puff. “Yeah.” There was a pause, the kind that stretched just long enough to feel deliberate. “Storm’s good cover if we need it. Wind like this? You can make more noise without drawing attention.”

The weight of her words settled heavy in your chest, the idea folding into you like a secret shield. Out here, sound was a double-edged sword, noise could either be a beacon for safety or a beacon for danger. The tension twisted quietly beneath the relief, a reminder that every step carried a risk.

You felt the cold deepen, biting harder at exposed skin as the wind started to whistle through gaps between the buildings, a ghostly howl that seemed to thread its way through every crack and crevice. Without thinking, you leaned subtly into Abby’s side, an unconscious gesture for warmth and for connection.

She shifted closer, and suddenly her hip brushed yours with a natural rhythm, steady and unforced. Her hand, that constant presence, never left the small of your back. It was firm but gentle, a guiding anchor that steered you past the obstacles she’d already memorized; the uneven pavement, the hidden dips and the frozen debris lurking beneath the snow’s deceptive surface.

You tuned into the rhythm of your footsteps, the steady crunch of snow pressed under boot soles, each sound amplified in the quiet world you navigated without sight. The pressure of Abby’s palm was unshakable, a silent language between you. Sometimes gentle, sometimes firm, but always there.

When she needed you to veer left, her hand would shift, a subtle nudge guiding your balance and direction. If a patch of ice lay ahead, she’d press just a little harder, a quiet warning that you’d feel deep in your spine. When a branch hung low or debris blocked the path, her voice floated over the storm, a soft command, clear and unwavering, telling you when to slow and when to step high.

There was a comfort in the way she moved with you, not in front or behind, but beside, synchronizing her pace to yours like a dance you’d learned without words. You could feel her breath, steady and warm, brushing against your neck as the wind tugged at your layers.

The crunch of snow beneath your boots had been steady, rhythmic, until it stopped so abruptly you almost collided into Abby’s back. The heat from her palm between your shoulder blades, your compass since you’d stepped outside, lifted away, leaving the cold to rush in. The wind slid into that space like it had been waiting for the chance, slipping through the seams of your jacket and tugging at the hair along your neck. Abby didn’t move forward, and in that pause you caught the shift in her breathing, just enough to tell you she’d seen something unexpected.

Her jacket whispered against itself as the gusts pulled at it. She didn’t speak right away, but you could almost hear her looking, her attention stretching out over whatever lay ahead.

“What the…” she muttered under her breath, low and almost distracted. Not angry. Not panicked. Just… off-balance. Then her voice lifted, clear and certain in the space between you. “No. This can’t be right. The village… it should be right here. Here.” She hit that last word with a steady finality, like she knew exactly where she was standing, and the world was the one that had gotten it wrong. “This was my target. My mission. The whole reason we came out here.”

You stayed still, letting her have the silence. “Abby,” you said softly, “tell me what you see.”

There was a short, deliberate pause before she answered. “Snow. Flat ground. What’s left of a few buildings, burned, maybe. Could’ve been weeks ago, maybe longer. Nobody here. No fires. No tracks. Just… empty.”

Her voice carried the same even tone she used when talking through a plan, but there was something underneath it, something like the quiet unwinding of a tension she’d been holding for too long. You didn’t hear frustration in her words. You didn’t hear fear. You heard… recalculating.

The faint creak of leather told you she was reaching into her pack, followed by the soft snap of a button and the small, distinct click of her comm. “Isaac. Village is gone. Looks abandoned, burned down, no sign of anyone. We’re moving on.”

Static hissed for a few beats before Isaac’s voice cut in, low and sure. “Copy. We’ll pick you up after the storm. Find shelter. If you’re not on comms by morning, we’ll assume you’re out of range.”

The channel snapped closed, leaving nothing but the wind’s restless push against your jacket and the faint sound of Abby shifting her weight. Snow shifted under her boots in small, deliberate movements. She wasn’t still in shock. She wasn’t even hesitating. It was more like she was letting her body catch up to her mind, settling into the reality that this wasn’t going to be the fight she’d been prepared for.

You reached out, hand brushing the thick sleeve of her arm before sliding down to her wrist. The warmth radiating through her glove was a small defiance against the cold pressing in everywhere else. She let you take her hand, her fingers curling around yours after a moment, her grip firm enough to be reassuring without being rushed.

“Well,” she said finally, and there was the faintest thread of humor there, “guess I don’t have to throw myself into a fight I’d probably lose.”

A small smile tugged at your mouth. “Could’ve told you I liked that plan better.”

Her hand gave yours a subtle squeeze. “Yeah,” she said, her voice lower now, closer to you. “Me too. Not that I wanted to come all this way for nothing, but… people matter more than some burned-out buildings.”

“Exactly,” you said. “And you’re still here. That matters.”

The wind rose again, sweeping loose snow across your boots, and you felt her shift just a little closer, her hip brushing yours as she started forward. Her palm settled back between your shoulder blades, guiding you in the way only she could, subtle pressure for a left turn, a little lift to warn of something buried you’d need to step over. Her hand was steady, anchored, carrying the unspoken weight of her decision without dragging you into it.

“You okay?” you asked after a while, letting the silence stretch far enough that you could hear the small huff of her breath before she answered.

“Yeah.” She sounded almost surprised by it. Then, after a pause, “I mean… I didn’t realize how much I was expecting this to go bad until it didn’t.”

You tilted your head toward her voice. “You were scared.”

There was no defensiveness in the little laugh she let out. “Yeah. Guess I was.” You could hear her glove shift against the strap of her pack as she adjusted it, the leather squeaking faintly. “Not scared of the fight, exactly. Just… the way it could’ve ended. I don’t think I realized I’d already decided I wasn’t coming back.”

That sat heavy between you, not because she sounded broken about it, but because she didn’t. She said it like she was telling you the weather, fact, not drama.

“And now?” you asked.

Her steps crunched a little slower for a few beats, the snow dragging under her boots before she answered. “Now it’s just us in a storm. And I’d take that over bleeding out in the snow any day.” Her hand on your back pressed a little firmer, almost protective. “Doesn’t mean I’m happy this whole thing was a bust… but I’m not gonna pretend I’m upset we get to walk away from it.”

“You didn’t even get close,” you said, smiling faintly.

She gave a short laugh, warmer this time. “Yeah, and for once, I’m not mad about it.”

The wind shifted, throwing a spray of snow across your face, and she leaned into you just enough to block it. Her voice came closer, carrying over the hum of the storm. “I don’t usually get to choose between the mission and the people. Wasn’t sure which one I’d pick if I had to. Guess… I do now.”

You let that hang there, feeling the truth of it in the way her steps matched yours and the steady weight of her hand, guiding you through a world you couldn’t see, but could feel, entirely, in her presence.

The wind had a cruel edge now, threading through every seam in your clothes until it felt like it could scrape you hollow. It wasn’t just cold, it was the kind of cold that found its way into your bones, clinging there. Beside you, Abby’s breath sounded different, the steady control she always kept slipping into something rougher, like she was having to work harder to keep the rhythm.

She shifted in closer without warning, and then you heard the rasp of a zipper coming down. The sudden bloom of heat spilling from her jacket reached you before the heavy fabric did.

“Abby,” you warned, hand already shooting out.

“Just take it—”

“No.” You caught her wrist, the leather of her glove rough under your fingers.

For a moment she didn’t move, and then she huffed out a small laugh that didn’t quite hide the strain in it. “Owen used to do this. Always tried to play hero when it got cold, hand over his jacket like I couldn’t handle it.” There was something in the way she said his name, not bitter, not warm, just… distant, like she was brushing frost off a memory. “Guess I’m turning into him.”

“Don’t,” you said quietly.

Her glove flexed in your grip, but she didn’t try to pull free. “Why? You think I’d look bad in the role?”

“I think you’d look dead in it if you keep giving away your heat,” you said.

That earned you a low chuckle, the kind that rumbled more in her chest than in her throat. She zipped her jacket back up without another word, but the space between you didn’t widen again. If anything, she walked closer, her shoulder brushing yours in brief, grounding passes. Her hand stayed steady at your back, guiding you forward, but the pressure felt less like direction now, more like she was keeping herself tethered just as much as you.

Her breathing shifted again, heavier, louder against the muffled sweep of wind. Then, without warning, her grip closed hard around your arm, pulling you sharply forward.

“Run!” she shouted, the word ripping through the storm, sharp enough to feel like it split the air in two.

Your heart jerked into your throat before your brain could even decide what to do. Your feet were already moving, pounding into the snow, chasing the sound of her boots ahead of you. You didn’t know what was behind you, but you could hear it, those jagged, wet-throated screams that didn’t belong to anything human. Heavy, erratic footfalls churned through the snow, fast, too fast. The rhythm was wrong, several sets of them, snapping branches, tearing up drifts in an uneven stampede. Clickers. Runners. Maybe both. You didn’t have time to sort the nightmare.

The wind whipped past your ears, shoving at you from the side, but the noises behind you were closer, sharper, like claws scraping across frozen ground. Abby’s boots thudded ahead, a constant, urgent metronome for you to follow. You locked onto it, each footfall hers, each one proof she was still there. You clung to that sound like a rope in the dark.

Then—

“Shit!”

Her voice snapped off, and before you could even process it, the ground was gone. One step landed on solid snow, the next into nothing. Your stomach lurched as gravity yanked you down. The wind in your ears became a scream, yours, maybe hers, maybe both. You were tumbling, spinning so fast you couldn’t tell up from down. Hard-packed snow slammed into your ribs, ice clawed at your palms through your gloves, the cold biting so deep it felt like fire. You tried to stop, tried to dig in your boots, but the slope kept throwing you forward, flipping you like a ragdoll.

When you finally skidded to a stop, you were on your side, your chest hitching against the frozen ground. The storm sounded muted here, smothered by the dip in the earth, but your lungs burned, your ribs screamed, and your heartbeat roared in your ears.

“Abby!” you yelled, twisting upright, your voice slicing through the muffled air. It bounced back at you, empty. No reply. Panic slid icy fingers up your spine. You staggered to your knees, the snow soaking through instantly, and started crawling. You swept your hands side to side in wide arcs, feeling for her, her jacket, her boots, anything. Your gloves scraped frozen clumps of grass, then sank into deep snow, then found nothing but more cold.

“Abby!” Louder this time, desperate enough that your throat ripped on the last syllable.

Nothing.

You dragged yourself forward anyway, your knees plowing shallow trenches in the snow. You crawled in uneven circles, one hand clawing forward, the other sweeping wide.

Your breath came ragged, quick bursts that fogged the air and froze against your cheeks. You called her name again and again, the word losing shape in your mouth, breaking apart under the weight of your fear. Each silence that followed felt heavier, pressing in around you until your ears rang.

Images you didn’t want slammed into your mind; her body twisted in the snow, the light gone from her voice, the warmth gone from her hands. You shook your head hard, willing them away, but your chest tightened until it hurt to breathe.

You moved faster, scraping ice off your palms, shoving through drifts that caught at your wrists. Every sound became her, every shift of snow, every creak of ice, but when you reached for it, it was nothing. Just the wind lying to you.

Your voice cracked into something small and uneven. “Please, Abby…” Not loud, not meant for the storm, just for her, if she was close enough to hear.

Nothing answered but the cold.

You didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Even if the cold bled the strength from your arms, you kept crawling, blind in more ways than one, searching for something warm, something solid, something her.

The snow pressed into every inch of you, cold so deep it no longer stung, just settled in like it belonged there, like it had been part of you all along. Somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like weather and started feeling like the inside of you was the same as the outside; numb, pale and unfeeling. Time became slippery, useless. It might’ve been minutes. Hours. Days. You didn’t know, couldn’t know, because you’d stopped keeping track of breaths somewhere between the second wave of violent shivering and the long, aching stretch where even shivering seemed pointless, too much effort for a body that didn’t care anymore.

Your body lay where it had dropped you, half-swallowed by the drifts, the snow heavier now, pinning you down as if the earth itself had decided to keep you. The weight wasn’t crushing, but it was final, a quiet kind of restraint you didn’t have the strength to fight. Your limbs weren’t yours anymore. They’d gone from stiff to sluggish to something worse, separate, foreign, like they’d disconnected from you without asking. You could feel them only in flashes, a muted throb in your shoulder, the faint drag of your fingers curled somewhere uselessly against the ground.

You weren’t sure if your eyes were open. The dark felt the same either way. Solid, unbroken, the kind of black that made you question if sight had ever been a thing at all. You’d been here before, in the dark, but that darkness had always been alive with shape and sound. This one was flat, swallowing, the edges of everything smudged into nothing.

Somewhere near you, close enough that your mind kept reaching for it, far enough that your hands couldn’t, Abby might have been there. Or maybe you’d lost her. The thought floated in and out like a loose thread, brushing the edge of panic but never catching, because panic meant moving, and moving was no longer an option. You could still recall the snap in her voice when she’d yelled for you to run, the synchronized thud of bodies hitting the ground after the fall, but everything after was blurred, snow and air and nothing. The world had shrunk until it fit only cold and silence.

Every so often, if “often” even existed anymore, you caught something under the wind. A noise. Footsteps. A voice, low and broken up by distance. The wood-deep groan of something shifting, heavy, old. They slipped away before you could decide if they were real. Maybe they were just your brain coughing up memories, trying to keep you awake. You didn’t answer them, even if they were real. You weren’t sure your mouth could still shape her name.

Breathing had slowed without you noticing, falling into step with the lazy drift of snowflakes settling across your back. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Your chest rose less each time, the cold locking it tight, ribs feeling like rusted hinges. Thoughts stopped coming in full sentences, unraveling into smaller, softer pieces, Abby’s laugh breaking over her own words, the bitter tang of gun oil on her jacket when she’d leaned close, the warmth of a campfire brushing your cheeks days ago. They felt far away, not memories so much as rumors you’d once heard about warmth.

Then something shifted, not outside, but inside. The cold found the last bit of resistance you’d been holding tight in your chest and pressed down until it slipped away. It was quiet. Not a surrender, not exactly, just… the point where the fight was gone, not worth digging for.

That was when you noticed the other thing: you couldn’t feel your fingers anymore. Not just cold, gone. You tried to move them, curl them, but the signal went nowhere. Panic flared sharp, but it was dulled almost immediately by the weight settling over you. You tried your arms next, nothing but a faint drag somewhere far away, as if they belonged to someone else. You breathed faster, but the air didn’t come quick enough, the cold pressing each inhale into something shallow, brittle.

The edges of yourself began to blur. First your hands. Then your feet. Then the center of you, where your heartbeat used to pound hard enough to be the loudest thing in your head. Now it was faint, irregular, like a drum being carried farther and farther away. Your mind fought to hold onto it, onto you, but the dark pressed heavier with every passing second.

Sound dulled. The wind faded to a whisper. The faint rush of blood in your ears went quiet. The whole world was muffled, like it had been packed in snow. Your thoughts went slow, clumsy. The worry about Abby was still there, somewhere under the surface, but it was buried deep, unreachable.

You couldn’t tell when your body stopped trying. Couldn’t tell when your breathing finally fell out of rhythm. All you knew was the cold, and then even that started to fade, slipping away into something softer, heavier, final.

The dark pulled you under, and this time you didn’t fight it.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈ ・ ┈┈・ ┈┈・ ୨୧

When you woke, the first thing you noticed wasn’t light, there hadn’t been light for you in a long time, but the absence of cold. No wind gnawing at your cheeks, no frozen tightness in your joints, no thin layer of snow seeping into your clothes like ice through paper. The air here was still and warmer, smelling faintly of dry wood and something almost metallic beneath it, like old nails or rusted hinges. A weight rested over you, thick fabric, probably a blanket, heavy enough that it pressed gently against your ribs when you breathed. Underneath, the surface was soft and yielding, springs sighing faintly beneath your weight when you shifted. A mattress, a bed. It had been months since you’d lain on one.

You stayed still, your ears doing the work your eyes couldn’t. The building around you spoke in faint groans, timber settling, a roof beam answering with a soft pop, the occasional whisper of air slipping through some unseen gap. Your own breathing felt loud in the quiet. You could feel your pulse in your throat, not racing yet, but alert.

Then, footsteps.

They weren’t light. No cautious tiptoeing, no shuffle of someone avoiding notice. Heavy. Each step landed with a slow, deliberate weight that made the wood beneath complain in low creaks. You could hear the subtle scrape of tread catching on the boards, boots, big ones, worn enough that the edges no longer gripped cleanly. The sound carried through the floor into the mattress, faint vibrations brushing up into your bones. Whoever it was, they weren’t small.

Your chest tightened before you even thought about it, and the name escaped you without warning. “Abby.”

It didn’t come out clean. The word cracked halfway, catching in your throat until it sounded more like a half-sob, half-call, raw and thin, more pleading than you meant it to be. You hated how it landed in the air, hated that the desperation in it was plain enough for anyone to hear.

The footsteps paused. The air seemed to shift with the stillness, like the weight of their presence had turned directly toward you. Then they moved again, angled now in your direction, each step shortening the space between you until the air itself felt different, slightly warmer in one spot, pressing closer.

When he spoke, the voice was deep, low enough that you felt it more than heard it, a slow vibration threading faintly through your chest. Male. The sound sank into you with a heaviness that wasn’t comfort, wasn’t relief, just weight. You felt your mouth flatten before you could stop it, the brief spark of hope you’d let yourself feel when you’d called Abby’s name snuffed out in an instant.

“You awake? You alright?”

You gave the smallest nod before answering, your voice rough from sleep, or maybe from the days before, the cold that had scraped at your throat until it felt raw. “Yeah. I’m fine.” The lie came easily, like muscle memory, though every ache in your body disagreed.

There was a short pause, the sound of his boots shifting on the wood, the subtle grind of weight moving from one foot to the other. “Good. You’ll want to clean that wound twice a day. Morning and night, if you can manage.”

Your brow creased. Wound? The word felt strange in your mouth, strange in your body, as if it belonged to someone else entirely. You didn’t remember being cut, didn’t remember the sting of a blade or the crack of something striking you. Maybe you had, and the memory was just buried under the blur of cold and whatever came after the hill. You almost asked where, but the words stalled at the back of your tongue. Something in the tone of his voice told you he wasn’t making conversation. He was telling you, the way you tell someone the weather will turn.

You stayed quiet. The silence thickened between you, and your fingers tightened around the blanket, bunching the fabric as if it might keep you steady in this unfamiliar place. Somewhere deeper in the building, a door slammed, the sound sharp and hollow, followed by muffled voices calling back and forth. But here, in this smaller, stiller space, it was just you, your unspoken questions, and a man whose voice sounded like it had been dragged across too many winters.

You still didn’t know where Abby was. The thought sat at the back of your mind like a splinter you couldn’t dig out, small but constant, catching on every other breath. The room felt emptier without her voice in it, like the air wasn’t sitting right in your lungs.

You didn’t wait to soften your tone. “Where’s Abby? Did you—” the words caught for half a second before you forced them out, sharper than you meant—“did you find another woman out there?” The fear slipped through before you could cover it.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty, it was weighted. You couldn’t see if he nodded or shook his head, couldn’t gauge anything from his stillness except the steady, even pace of his breathing. Your fingers curled tighter into the blanket until the weave pressed hard into your palms.

When he finally spoke, his voice carried that slow, deliberate edge, like he’d gone back through the memory before handing it to you. “Found you both in the snow. You were closest to the fence line, face-down, like you’d been tryin’ to make it somewhere before you dropped. She was further off, couple meters, maybe, on her side, still as stone. Storm was comin’ in fast. Would’ve covered you both quick.”

You swallowed, your throat sticking. “How’d you even find us in that?”

“Almost didn’t,” he admitted. You heard the faint shift of his boots on the floor as he stepped a little closer, his voice filling more of the space between you. “Me and my brother were followin’ the fence home before the whiteout hit. Thought I heard somethin’, not a shout, just… wrong. Like the wind hit somethin’ it shouldn’t. Joel spotted your jacket first, half-buried. Then I saw her, snow already driftin’ over her legs.”

You didn’t remember any of it, the fence, the sound, the cold closing in, but you could feel it anyway, deep in the ache still lodged in your bones. “And now?”

“My brother’s with her,” he said, slower this time, like the words themselves carried weight. “Checkin’ her over, tryin’ to get warmth back in her. You’ll see her soon. But…” A short pause. “She was in a bad way when we brought her in.”

He let that settle before adding, “Name’s Tommy, by the way. Joel’s my brother. Guess you’ll meet him soon enough too.”

That last part about Abby hit like ice water in your veins, freezing everything in place before you could even start to spiral. But then his voice cut through again, steady. “You can go see her if you want.”

There was no pause in your answer, you nodded sharply, already pushing yourself upright despite the stubborn heaviness in your limbs. The blanket slipped from your shoulders, and the sudden bite of cool air brushed against your arms and neck, but you barely registered it. “Where?”

“Out the door, take a left, walk ‘til you see the big building with a red cross painted on it. Can’t miss it.”

You froze halfway to standing. See it. Right. The word landed with a dull thud, and for a second you chewed at the inside of your cheek, weighing whether to just feel your way there and hope you didn’t humiliate yourself, or admit it. In the end, need won out over pride. “…I can’t see.”

The room went quiet. Not empty quiet, just still, the faint hum of the air between you, your own uneven breathing, and him standing there. You could almost hear him thinking, weighing his response. Then his boots shifted, slow but deliberate, the sound carrying closer. “Alright,” he said simply, and there was no pity tucked into it, just finality.

A moment later, his hand closed over yours. The skin was rough, the warmth muted by calluses. It wasn’t like Abby’s touch, Abby’s hand always came with cues: a squeeze before a step, a quiet word before a turn. Tommy’s grip was all function, no warning. It was firm, impersonal, pulling you forward like he had somewhere to be and you were just along for the ride.

“Watch your step,” he said, but it came too late, the toe of your boot caught on a raised board, and his grip tightened just long enough to keep you from stumbling before he kept moving. His pace was brisk, each bootfall hitting the floor with a solid thud, each step jostling you slightly as you matched him stride for stride.

The air shifted the moment you crossed the threshold. The cold bit at your cheeks and nose, sharp but nothing like the blizzard you remembered, it was the kind that stung just enough to remind you you were alive. Snow crunched underfoot, brittle and satisfying, and the world outside felt busier. You caught voices layered over one another, too distant to follow, the hollow ring of a hammer striking metal, the soft whinny of a horse somewhere close. The air smelled of woodsmoke, snow-damp leather, and something faintly sweet, maybe hay.

Tommy didn’t fill the silence. He didn’t slow when the ground sloped or the path narrowed; you only knew when you stumbled and his grip tightened briefly to steady you before tugging you onward. It wasn’t guidance, it was transit, fast and unyielding, each step pulling you deeper into an unfamiliar place. But every crunch of snow, every tug forward, brought you closer to the only thing that mattered. Abby.

It wasn’t far, maybe just a few dozen steps, but every single one felt like walking through thick fog. Your boots sank unevenly into the snow, the cold biting through the thin fabric, then suddenly clacked against harder flooring that rang hollow beneath your feet.

The change in texture made your heart skip, a jarring reminder that you were moving through places you didn’t know, feeling your way through a world that was mostly shadows and sounds.

The air shifted as you crossed into the building. It grew warmer, but not in a comforting way, more like the sterile heat of a place meant to hold people who were broken or healing. Sharp, clean scents drifted through the air, the sting of disinfectant mixed with the earthy, woody smell of old beams and dry timber. It was a strange smell, not unpleasant, but unfamiliar enough. Your free hand swept forward instinctively, searching for walls or doorframes, rough textures grazing your fingertips as you tried to anchor yourself in the space.

Tommy’s hand on yours was steady, sure, but you could feel the difference between his grip and Abby’s. Abby was careful, always giving you those little warnings, a squeeze here, a whisper there, so you never felt rushed or pulled without warning.

Tommy’s hold was firm, even a little abrupt, like you were along for the ride whether you liked it or not. His boots thudded heavily with every step, the sound jarring against the quiet hum of voices echoing down the corridors ahead.

Your breath came unevenly, not just from the effort but from the knot of fear tightening in your chest. You couldn’t stop the questions spinning in your head; Where is Abby? Is she okay? Why am I here and not with her? Each question felt like a weight pressing down, making your limbs heavy and your heart pound faster.

Then, suddenly, the sounds changed. The distant murmur of voices faded to a hush, replaced by the faint, unmistakable creak of a door opening somewhere ahead. The air grew still, the atmosphere thick with silence, as if the building itself was holding its breath.

And then, through the quiet, her voice came.

“Right here.”

It was a shock. Not just the sound of her, but the way her voice hit you, a force that knocked something loose in your chest. A wild, raw surge of relief burst through the fog of exhaustion and fear, and your breath hitched, catching in your throat like a sob trying to break free. The tension you’d held onto since the cold, since waking up alone in the dark, cracked wide open.

Tears sprung unbidden to your eyes, blurring your senses even as you tried to steady your shaking breath. You swallowed hard, but the lump in your throat didn’t go away. Your body moved before your mind could catch up, following her voice like it was a lifeline through the unknown.

“Three steps forward, yeah, that’s it, little more left, keep coming.”

Her tone was sharp and confident, the same way she’d call plays in a game or direct you down a rough trail. You obeyed instinctively, each word a tether pulling you closer, closer, until suddenly her hand was there, warm and strong, curling gently around your wrist.

The moment her fingers closed over you, the whole world fell away. The biting cold, the harsh noises, the confusion, they all disappeared. All that was left was the steady, fierce pressure of Abby’s hand holding you upright, grounding you, reminding you that you were not alone.

Her voice softened then, dropping to the tone she used when she wanted to soothe you, to make you believe in something solid and unbreakable.

“I’m fine.”

Two words. So simple. But they struck you harder than anything you’d heard all day. The raw ache behind them made your throat tighten, and the tears spilled freely now, warm and wet trails slipping down your cheeks. You didn’t bother to wipe them away. You couldn’t. Not yet.

You wanted to believe her. You needed to believe her. Because in that moment, her voice was the only thing keeping the cold from creeping back in. The only thing telling you it would be okay.

You leaned into her touch, needing the reassurance of flesh on skin, the certainty of her strength against your fragility. Your breath trembled, your heart pounding so loud you thought she might hear it.

Eventually the sound of heavy boots receded down the hall, the door’s soft click closing behind Joel and Tommy, leaving the room wrapped in a silence that felt both hollow and suffocating. The quiet pressed close, broken only by the faint hum of distant voices and the slow, steady rhythm of your own breath. You sat there, heart still hammering, muscles tense, every nerve alert to the smallest sound or movement.

Abby shifted beside you, her presence solid and grounding, but there was a strange weight to the pause between you. Neither of you spoke at first, like the air held its breath, waiting.

Then, almost without warning, Abby’s voice broke through, soft, careful, but edged with urgency. “I need to check something,” she said quietly, her tone hesitant but steady. “I want to check if there’s a wound. Can I touch you?”

You nodded, barely trusting your voice to carry through the thick knot in your throat. Her hand moved slowly, deliberately, reaching out before resting gently on your arm, warm and reassuring. You could feel the strength in her fingers, the way she adjusted her touch, firm enough to guide but soft enough not to startle. You breathed in the faint scent of her, earthy, clean, a tether in the unfamiliar dark.

“Tell me if it hurts,” she whispered. “I don’t want to make it worse.”

Your fingers trembled as she slowly trailed her hand down your arm, across your ribs, until you felt her pause, the subtle press of her palm against your side. “Here.”

You hesitated before bringing your own hand to the spot she’d indicated. The skin was raw, tender beneath your fingertips, a dull ache simmering just beneath the surface.

“You’re okay, but we’ll need to keep an eye on this.” She said, voice almost a caress.

You swallowed hard, your fingers curling protectively around the spot as if your touch alone could shield it from pain or infection.

Then, almost as if sensing your hesitation, Abby shifted closer and, hesitating for only a moment, reached out her other hand toward you. “Let me show you—” she said, guiding your hand toward her own arm.

You let your fingers slide over the bruises blooming there, tender but healing. The rough edges of scrapes, the faint warmth under your touch. Abby’s skin was tougher, scarred in places, but you could feel the pulse of life beneath it.

“We’re both a mess,” she said quietly, voice thick with something fierce and raw. “But we’re gonna be okay.”

Your breath hitched, a tear slipping free as relief and fear tangled in your chest. The room felt impossibly large and small all at once, the weight of everything you’d lost and everything you still needed to fight for pressing down.

Abby’s hand closed around yours then, steady and sure. “I’m here,” she said. “You’re not alone. We’ll figure this out, step by step.”

You nodded against the lump in your throat, letting yourself lean into the warmth of her touch, holding tight to the fragile thread of hope she offered. The wound, the mission, the uncertainty, all of it still gnawed at the edges of your mind. But for now, with Abby beside you, you could just breathe.

After a few moments of quiet, Abby’s voice came again, softer now, almost hesitant. “Do you… remember their names? The two men who found us?”

You swallowed hard, trying to recall the names the man had told you. “Yeah. One was Joel, the other was Tommy. Tommy said he helped us… both of us, actually.” You shifted slightly, your fingers brushing against the thin fabric covering her. “I’m not sure which one is which, but that’s what he said.”

There was a long pause. You waited, but Abby didn’t say anything right away. The silence between you felt heavier now, weighted with something unspoken.

“Abby?” you finally whispered, your voice trembling with uncertainty. “Is something wrong?”

She hesitated, then her voice returned, quiet but steady. “No, it’s nothing. Just a name. It doesn’t mean much.”

You wanted to reach out, to press for more, but her tone stopped you. There was a pause, a stillness in the air that made your heart pound louder than before. You could feel her breath, the faint heat radiating from her skin, but not the shadows in her eyes, not the flicker of something she was hiding.

“It’s fine,” she said softly, almost too quickly, as if she was trying to convince herself as much as you. “Nothing you need to worry about.”

You nodded, though you didn’t fully believe it. The quiet stretched between you again, filled with the weight of things left unsaid.

Abby’s voice was soft, almost hesitant. “Sorry for pulling away.” She reached out, patting the mattress beside her, an invitation laced with uncertainty. You paused, the rough fabric beneath your fingertips, the quiet hum of the room pressing in around you. Slowly, carefully, you lowered yourself down, the cold sheet brushing your skin. Her hand was there almost instantly, warm and steady, guiding you gently to lie back beside her. “You really need some rest,” she whispered, voice wavering just a little, as if unsure how much to say, how much to risk.

You shifted, fingers curling into the sheets, restless. “I don’t like it,” you said quietly, voice heavy, “when you keep things from me. I hate not knowing.”

Her breath hitched. You could feel her hesitating, a pause so long it stretched between you like fragile glass. Then, finally, she spoke. “I know. I’m sorry. I just... I have to talk with Isaac first. Get everything straight. I want to tell you the truth, but not until I’m sure I can.” Her fingers traced small circles along your side, trying to soothe. “Please, just trust me a little longer.”

You wanted to argue, to demand the truth then and there, but the exhaustion in your limbs won out, and your voice softened to a whisper. “Okay,” you said, though uncertainty gnawed at you.

Her arm slid around you, pulling you closer, her body a steady anchor against the endless dark that was your world. The steady rise and fall of her breath, the soft warmth of her skin next to yours, it all settled your restless mind. You exhaled slowly, heart pounding. “I was scared,” you admitted, voice cracking, “so scared I lost you out there. That I wouldn’t hear your voice again... or feel your touch.”

Your fingers trembled as they reached out, brushing along the curve of her cheek, the warmth beneath your skin a lifeline. She didn’t pull away. Instead, her body shifted subtly toward you, as if encouraging your touch. “I want to remember you,” you breathed, “every inch, every shape. Especially your face... I want to hold it in my mind.”

Your thumb drifted to her lips, soft and gentle under your touch. You barely had time to register the way her breath hitched before she leaned in, pressing her lips to yours. The kiss was slow, tentative at first, then deeper, grounding you in a way words never could. Your heart thundered in your chest, and despite everything, the secrets, the fear, you melted into her warmth.

When you pulled back, your foreheads pressed together, breath mingling in the quiet room. Your voice was barely audible. “Please... promise me this isn’t just to quiet me. That it’s real. That you mean it.”

A soft sigh passed through her, a pause heavy with everything unsaid. Then, with unwavering tenderness, she whispered, “I promise. I love you. I always have. No matter what happens, if you lose your sight, your voice, your legs, anything, I’ll still love you. Always.”

Her fingers tightened around yours, a quiet vow. You let her words wash over you, letting the warmth of her touch fill the cold emptiness, holding on to her as the only light in your darkness.