Two Wrongs, One Right

by missadangel

Summary:

Joel Miller x Immune Reader
Before the 2003 outbreak, the Cordyceps virus was a secret government project led by your father, a dedicated scientist. After realizing his mistake, he discovered your immunity following a bite at age 10. Desperate to make amends, he made deals with Fedra and later with the Fireflies, while you chose to escape instead of sacrificing yourself.
Years of evading capture ended when you were eventually caught and taken to a hospital in Salt Lake with another immune girl. They thought two hosts would boost their vaccine chances, unaware that Joel was ready to take them all down.
Unbeknownst to him, he had saved both you and Ellie. Now, you set out on your own, hoping to find your rescuer again, leaving the rest of the Fireflies behind in your hospital scrubs.
It wasn't long before you unexpectedly encountered him in Jackson, but he had no idea who you were or about your immunity.

Chapter 1: The Man Who Saved You

**Prologue.** 

You are her. The girl that Fedra, Fireflies and the WLF chased endlessly but could never pin down. Somehow, you always managed to slip away. 

EVERY SINGLE TIME. 

That’s you.

You are among the first witnesses to see the world turned upside down with the arrival of this chaotic new reality, where everything familiar crumbled due to the cordyceps virus that transformed life as we know it. You stand out as a unique individual, an extraordinary person navigating this virus in a way that defies all expectations, possessing an incredible immunity that sets you apart from the rest.

That’s you. 

“Humanity's only hope, the sole potential source of a cure, the chance to develop a vaccine that may never be found again.” 

Yeah, those after you see it that way. As a thing, a lab rat, a test subject—disposable, without dreams or feelings... 

But honestly, you shouldn’t be surprised.

From the moment you came into the world, a profound sense of distance from others has surrounded you—something you never had a choice in. It all began when your mother was bitten by one of your father's test subjects while she was pregnant. That incident marked the onset of a global crisis—the day the virus escaped from the CDC and rapidly spread across the globe. Growing up in a laboratory, you couldn’t shake the feeling of being out of touch with what most people would consider home.

Your dad and his team dedicated years to creating something remarkable for humanity—yeah, they really believed in it—while dabbling in something perilously risky, only to realize they had made a grave mistake. They managed to keep it under wraps, but they could never quite eliminate the problem, always falling short.

From 2000 to 2003, your dad and his crew poured everything they had into combating a virus known only to a select few in the government. By August 2003, the number of test subjects had skyrocketed past a thousand, sparking outbreaks in Indonesia and other key grain-producing areas.

And that’s when the world went to hell. 

‘°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°TWO WRONGS, ONE RIGHT°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°’

The sound of boots echoes on the floor as a figure strodes through the entrance of the building.

The man has “F.E.D.R.A.” emblazoned in large letters across his back, indicating he is likely a Fedra soldier or commander. Everyone in the room avert their gaze, casting guilty looks as if they had just been caught red-handed. Those sitting on the floor, some sporting visible injuries, quickly get up, heads bowed—not just out of respect, but from sheer shock and fear. They keenly aware that trouble is looming, for this man only appeared during significant events. He is one of Fedra's elite, irreplaceable in his role.

Major Gibson's furious, disappointed eyes scans the room, his anger swelling with each wounded soldier in sight.

One of the soldiers steppes forward, visibly nervous, and offeres a salute. “Sir.”

“What’s the situation, lieutenant?” Gibson inquires, his voice steady yet charged.

“Sir, we’ve managed to corner the target inside the building.”

Gibson narrow his eyes, disappointment dripping from his tone. “You’ve managed?” His gaze shift to the injured soldiers sprawles across the floor, some with bandages on their heads and limbs. “Is this what you call 'manage'?”

The lieutenant loweres his head but, despite his recent failures, a flicker of hope ignites in his eyes—tinged with a dash of determination. “The girl is wounded. She can't escape from the building. All entrances and exits are secured by my men.” She points to the building plan spread out before them, indicating the girl’s possible location.

Without looking up from the map, Gibson asks, “A girl. Is the one responsible for putting your men in this sorry state just a girl?"

Taking a deep breath, the lieutenant steadies herself and replies, “With all due respect, sir, you don’t know her yet. We have clear instructions to capture her alive. It's challenging since she’s exceptionally well-trained—"

“I may not know her, but I do know the orders. How old is this girl again?”

The lieutenant hesitates but answers carefully, “Twenty, sir.”

A grim smile spreads across Gibson's face, as if he expected this. He looks at the soldiers around him, counting them.

“Interesting,” Gibson says with angry smirk. “Twenty men can’t handle a twenty-year-old girl. How fuckin' ironic.” The soldiers bow their heads again. “Alright, listen up! We need to capture this girl before sundown. With the Fireflies closing in and everything going to shit, we can’t afford to let that girl get away. Get your fuckin' shit together! Let's do this!"

“As you command, sir.”

“Yes, sir,” the soldiers echo, rallying around him as Gibson pulls out a red phosphorescent pen and starts marking the building plan. “We’re going to follow my plan for the capture,” he says, and the mood shifts, filled with a sense of purpose.

‘°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°TWO WRONGS, ONE RIGHT°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°’

“Fuck,” you curse under your breath as you press your hand against the bullet wound just above your knee. They’re definitely trying to cripple you without killing you, aimlessly targeting your legs, but some of them must not know what they’re doing. Trying to find first aid supplies in this building is like digging a well with a toothpick—practically impossible. Ignoring the pain, you stagger forward with your automatic rifle in hand, scanning every inch of the corridor for anything that might help. At the far end, the dark elevator shaft catches your eye. You can’t tell if the cabin is just stopped or stuck somewhere below, but your mind quickly races to plot your escape. The elevator doors are two-sided, and if you can exit from the other side, you might make it to another building. But with your leg like this, it’ll be painfully slow, and you know that once they figure out where you are, they’ll be right on your tail.

You’re certain of it.

Think, think, think. 

Your eyes dart around the crumbling, half-destroyed building, reeking of mold and decay, and then you spot the kitchen area. Just then, a strong, deep voice calls your name from outside. You don’t care; you know what’s coming next, so you head to the stove, checking the gas cylinders in the kitchen.

“Surrender immediately! I repeat, surrender immediately. I’ll count to three, and my team will enter. We know you’re wounded; there’s nowhere left to run. You’ll be the one who gets hurt.”

You snort, partly at his threat and partly at the thrill building up inside you as you realize the kitchen gas cylinder is still functional. Suddenly, a plan forms in your mind. “We’ll see about that, motherfucker,” you mutter, turning all six knobs and quickly tying a bandana around your neck to cover your mouth.

As the gas begins to fill the room, you can hear him counting down.

“You cocky show-off,” you whisper, pulling a lighter from your pocket. With the cigarette you snagged from the dead man's bag on the street last week, you light it up and take a long drag. The smoke is heavy, old, and scratchy, burning your lungs, but it carries a familiar comfort. You brace one of the doors closed, waiting for the gas to spread. This is a gamble you’ve never taken before—something that could very well backfire—but you don’t care. You’re smart enough to wrap a fire blanket around yourself. With the cigarette burning down, you hear the soldiers’ footsteps getting closer. Adrenaline surges through you, your heart pounding. You bite your lower lip, take a deep breath, and grip a piece of stone from the floor—probably debris from the wall blasted in an earlier explosion. You wrap the blanket around your entire body, feeling every heartbeat like a drum demanding action.

As you check your cigarette, watching it burn almost to the end, you spot the soldiers approaching. Counting them as they appear: one, two, three, and...

Now, it’s go time.

You prepare to toss the burning cigarette with a flick of your thumb and middle finger. With the stone in hand, you smash the glass of the door and step into the elevator shaft, ready to jump to the other side, both physically and mentally. The smell of gas rushes into your nostrils as you hurl the cigarette into the shaft, cover yourself with the blanket, and brace for impact.

Then all hell breaks loose.

It’s not the sharp explosion of a grenade you might expect—rather, it’s slow but utterly devastating. First, the flame from the cigarette ignites the gas fumes, and then pressure causes everything to explode outward with a haunting roar. A shard of glass grazes you, stopping you just short of your escape. In that heartbeat, you realize the mix of brilliance and recklessness in your move. Tossing the cigarette this close was a mistake, but the blanket shields you from the fire's fury, saving your skin. It all transpires in mere seconds, but the intensity is overwhelming.

With the noise pulsing in your ears, you gather your strength and take a few steps back to jump. Your rifle bumps against you, but the shock dulls the sensation. You sprint forward as fast as possible, launching yourself into the air. You land and roll to your feet, recovering swiftly while scanning your surroundings. Did something -infected- hear that blast? Did a soldier figure out your scheme? Nothing moves. A grin spreads across your face, despite the chaos—you’re a mess, but you’re unstoppable. Adrenaline floods your system. It’s as if your blood has transformed, energizing you as you soak in the thrill of your narrow escape.

This section of the building is calm and quiet, but it's unnervingly dark. Frustrated, you flick on your flashlight and move forward, visualizing your plan with every step, recalling the silhouette you spotted from outside. As you make your way down the stairs, you steer toward the likely location of the fire escape. Fortunately, the lower floors are bright, the walls have cracks that let in sunlight, and nature's touch is visible with overgrown grass surrounding you. The area around the fire escape door is unobstructed, and you’re nearly ready to make your escape. The soldiers' voices are now barely audible, a distant clamor filled with shouts and even some pleading. All of it because of what you've done. All because of you. Strangely, it doesn’t scare you like it once did, nor do you feel the same weight of guilt. Not anymore. You have your reasons, and they’re all too valid.

But this isn’t the time to dwell on the past. You are neither the hunted nor the hunter; you exist within a rigid philosophy. Kill or be killed. Eliminate anyone who stands in your way. That’s the new order—a law, a constitution, a moral code to live by. After all, who can hold you accountable? No one bears the blame; everyone is a victim except one. It’s all his fault: your father. And that’s exactly why you’re on the run, and why you must keep moving.

The destruction you’ve caused is staggering; most of the soldiers are likely dead, the rest wounded and spent. That’s a relief; they won’t be pursuing you for a while. At least until you find a vehicle and make your way out of Boston for good.

**Prologue ends.**

‘°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°TWO WRONGS, ONE RIGHT°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°’

10 years earlier. 

September 26, 2003... 

It was too late. There was no corner of the Earth untouched by the virus. The CDC had gone quiet; its energy spent, its resources depleted, and a grave mistake had occurred.

At just ten years old, you suddenly became significant in your father's eyes—a girl who had once been seen as unimportant until you were bitten by one of his test subjects. Just like your mother.

When your father, a dedicated scientist specializing in infectious diseases, finally looked at you—really looked at you—you felt a rush of excitement. With the innocence of your ten-year-old mind, you might have thought his sadness stemmed from the fact that you were going to die soon, like your mother, your friends, his friends, coworkers and countless others struggling to survive out there.

But you were mistaken; they were mistaken.

You weren't infected.

You didn’t die.

You didn't change.

The bite mark remained—the wound became infected like any ordinary scratch, but eventually, it healed.

It passed.

This was incredible, impossible even, but it happened. That night, your father and his research team aimed all their efforts at studying you. Yes, you were the new test subject. But unlike the others, you were unique, challenging the very limits of reason and logic.

In a way that defied everything your 40-year-old father had seen, learned, taught, and discovered throughout his life, you were alive.

Your situation flew in the face of biology, science, and medicine. It felt like the final flicker of hope, a fleeting thought—a brief breeze.

You were, quite simply, an impossibility.

You were unreal.

You were a miracle.

Yes, "miracle" was the first word that came out of your father’s mouth when he finally smiled into your eyes. It was the only positive thing he had said, but it wasn’t a genuine compliment. It was just a reaction, the moment he realized you hadn't undergone a visible transformation due to the virus—that you were still human.

Miracle.

That single word would shatter whatever had already been broken.

You despised that word with every part of your being. Even now, it’s still a curse, an insult. Because from that moment on, the worst chapter of your life began.

Nothing would ever be the same again after you heard that word. Things were already bleak, and then they took a turn for the worse.

November 29, 2003.

The old world had vanished; everything was now under the army's control. Before the Cordyceps outbreak, it was just an ordinary emergency response unit, handling floods, earthquakes, and other crises. But when the Cordyceps brain infection spiraled out of control, transforming people into infected monsters, FEDRA seized complete control of civilian life. Despite your father being a scientist involved in top-secret projects, it wasn’t solely his influence that mattered. The world had become such a disaster that, regardless of who you were—celebrity, politician, millionaire, or even the president—you were all in the same sinking ship. Rank, fame, and reputation meant nothing; survival was all that counted. The only reason they took your father seriously, listened to him, and placed you—all the lab staff—in safe areas was because of your unique situation. Very few were aware of this, not even Fedra's top brass. Only one of their higher-ups had a clue, but that was just a facade, a distraction they could no longer afford to focus on. Proof was necessary, and it couldn’t be simply about showing your bite mark.

It required scientific data and hard evidence.

Yes, the procedures still continued in this chaotic world.

First, they needed to find a secure place to carry out laboratory activities, but Fedra didn’t prioritize that. It had only been a year since the outbreak started, and hospitals had become some of the most dangerous places around. Soon after, the Fireflies' uprising complicated matters even further. As people worldwide succumbed to the epidemic daily, transforming into lifeless creatures, discussions about a vaccine faded into mere chatter. This was largely due to the failed attempts at developing one. Fedra was reluctant to accept it, while your father was desperate to convince them—but there was simply no way to prove him right. All he had were your blood samples, X-ray results, photos of the bite mark, along with video and audio recordings.

Living in the quarantine zone meant you had to conceal your bite mark, located right on your calf, since there were no guarantees of special protection for you. Instead, they pushed you to take part in self-defense training.

To put it more accurately, your father forced you.

You hated him for it.

You had never been fond of him, but pushing you into intense military training was the final straw. His apparent happiness, as if someone else were to blame for the outbreak, only added to your frustration. Yet, only you, your father, and one other surviving team member were aware of the truth—William. Unlike your father, who never seemed to take the blame, William lamented the role he played in this global catastrophe. Their constant bickering drove you mad, especially when everything around you was already in disarray.

A few months later, the Pittsburgh quarantine zone, where you had been temporarily living, was attacked by a group known as hunters, forcing an urgent evacuation. Hospitals were also being targeted, smuggled by the hunters or raiders. Your father's hopes were dwindling, and the situation was growing more dire by the day.

October, 2009. 

Six years had come and gone since everything changed. First, the quarantine zone in Pittsburgh crumbled, falling into the hands of hunters. The remaining civilians in Pittsburgh joined their ranks, and those who dared to voice their opposition were swiftly silenced by the hunters' ruthless leader.   

The U.S. military pulled back their search efforts from all areas beyond ten miles of established quarantine zones, a decision clearly outlined in a letter from the U.S. Attorney General. Meanwhile, Boston had emerged as one of the most secure quarantine zones, successfully fending off firefly attacks. That’s where you were now—until Fedra's elite unit transferred you to a secret location. 

At last, what your father had been longing for had occurred: a fully equipped hospital had been discovered and cleared from infected, and you would soon be escorted there.

As time went on, the cordyceps continued to evolve. The first group infected in the second stage began transforming into the terrifying third stage known as clickers. This made survival outside the quarantine zones increasingly perilous; the only means of communication left were radios and announcements. 

When the convoy set off from Boston, transporting you to the hospital, they didn’t reveal the destination. Perhaps they kept it from you for your own good. Suddenly, an unexpected attack happens—fireflies, the rebel group you’d only heard about but never encountered. Your father and William urge you to stay in the vehicle for your safety as the sounds of fighting erupt outside. The Fedra military vehicle you were in offered some degree of protection, but as a teenager, you were still grappling with feelings of frustration and rebellion, dismissing everything around you. Your disdain for your father had reached new heights, and little did you know that these emotions would soon morph into something far more complex—raw rage.

The firefight intensified, and before you knew it, they’d eliminated all the Fedra soldiers. The door of your vehicle swung open, and a dark-skinned woman with curly hair stepped between two firefly soldiers, commanding you to exit. Your father and William nodded in approval, but hesitation gripped you. William gently pulled you to your feet, standing protectively by your side. You dropped down from the vehicle, shoving your hands deep into your hoodie pockets, embodying the angst of a teenager, looking like you were a million miles away from being the world's last hope.

You relished the sight of your father looking vulnerable, hands raised in surrender. You remained indifferent to the armed soldiers surrounding you—this was a scene you had grown all too familiar with. But your father’s face, etched with desperation, was a different matter entirely, and you couldn’t help but find it amusing.

“Please, we’re only doctors,” he begged, which only made you smile with a hint of cruelty.

"We know exactly who you are, Doctor Clouser," one of them says, carrying a tone of authority. It was the woman with curly hair who spoke up.

“Oh, shit,” you muttered sarcastically. William shoots you a disapproving glance, but you brush it off. 

The soldiers turned their attention back to your father, who seemed caught between fear and resignation. “You’re coming with us,” the woman asserted. Reluctantly, your father conceded. What other choice did he have anyway? If they intended to kill you, they would have done it already. 

As you walked toward their vehicle, you cast one last glance at the lifeless bodies of Fedra soldiers sprawled on the ground—an all too familiar sight in this grim reality. Your father went on about how Fedra would come looking for you, how they wouldn’t let you go easily, emphasizing your importance.

But no one seemed to pay him any mind. 

The journey felt endless, and by evening you arrived at the University of Eastern Colorado, one of the fireflies' bases. The woman leading the group introduced herself as Marlene. Your father was wary of her, and only you and William knew why. When they took you into a triage tent, leaving you alone with Marlene and her two men, you sensed that you were not the only one aware of the truth. 

"I wonder why Fedra is keeping you alive? After all, you’re to blame for everything, aren’t you, Dr. Clouser? Nobel Prize-winning scientist in molecular biology and genetics. And you, Dr. William Devane, microbiology expert, also an award-winning scientist. Two geniuses responsible for the outbreak that fucked everything up."

Your father and William tensed up as Marlene’s companions exchanged shocked glances. Marlene’s expression shifted from anger to an almost hopeful curiosity. “So tell me, why does Fedra help you? Is there a chance for a cure or a vaccine? Is that their goal?” 

A cure, a vaccine—those words you almost hear every fuckin' day. Turning your gaze to the side, you spotted a 9mm pistol on a table nearby. Grabbing it in a quick motion crossed your mind—thanks to those teenage hormones—but that was a dumb idea; there was no way you could take on all those soldiers outside. They had no clue about your immunity and wouldn't think twice about taking you out and you didn’t want to risk William’s life. Yeah, you cared about him more than you did for your father.

When your father and Marlene were inside the tent talking, you waited outside, aware that Marlene's men were eyeing you with obvious hostility. Who could blame them? Anyone would think the same way, knowing the truth: they were responsible for the world’s downfall and and the one in charge was your dad.

Soon, Marlene and your father emerged, and all eyes turned to them. The moment your father's gaze met yours, you instantly grasped what was being discussed.

What a surprise.

Marlene cast a meaningful glance at her men, called them back to her side, and you returned inside. Your father looked directly at you. “Show them, it’s okay.”

You shot him a glare. “I’m wearing freaking jeans.”

He glared back. “I told you to show them.”

William stepped in, using a gentle voice as he called your name and placed a hand on your shoulder. “Let me help you.” The bite mark was on the inside of your calf, which is why it made you tense. William positioned himself in front of you, creating a barrier as you unzipped your pants. “Okay, sweetheart?”

You rolled your eyes. “Like it would even matter if I said I wasn’t.” You pulled your hoodie down to keep your underwear hidden; luckily, it was long enough to cover your backside.

When William finally stepped aside, the bite mark came into view, looking like a tree branch etched into the skin. Marlene bent down, switched on her flashlight, and leaned in to inspect the mark closely. Remembering how you got this bite, the moment you got bit by an infected, you fought the urge to kick her while she gazed down at the mark. “When did this happen?”

She directed the question at you, but your father chimed in, as usual. “I’ll do the talking; you just stay quiet.” It was his go-to line.

“Six years,” he replied.

Marlene raised her eyebrows in surprise. Your father continued, “Yes, it coincided with the outbreak.”

“How come the vaccine hasn’t been produced until now?” she asked.

And just like that, your father launched into an explanation about the early days—how Fedra couldn’t get you to the hospital, the lack of facilities, and so on. As you pulled your pants back up, you muttered, "That’s enough staring, I guess."

“Salt Lake,” Marlene said firmly. “That’s where we’ll be taking all the supplies after the unsuccessful vaccination attempt by the Biologists we brought in from San Francisco. The hospital is large and has everything you might need, but it’s not exactly clean. Infections are widespread, and cordyceps has infested even the operating rooms. Cleaning it up will take some time. For now, you’ll stay here until I send you there. And remember, this stays between us.” Your father and William nodded, then she turned to her men, giving them a meaningful look without uttering a word.

“Don’t worry, Marlene,” they reassured her in unison.

Marlene locked eyes with you, cautioning you not to say anything about your situation and to behave, having caught on to your rebellious attitude. That look.

The same gaze that flickers in the eyes of everyone who learns your secret—the look of hope you despised. Thankfully, Marlene didn’t use that word; perhaps she was a realist and not a believer in miracles. That might be the only thing you liked about her.

The only damn thing.

February 2012.

Failure, every scientist’s worst nightmare, lingers like a shadow over your father. As promised, Marlene and her team clean the hospital and ensure you’re placed there. He and William have everything they need. It’s impressive that they’ve managed better than Fedra. Yet, failure stares them down once more, especially after the 186th attempt. Each failed experiment begins with the hope that maybe this time it will succeed. Everyone in the hospital is exhausted, sleepless, and on the brink of despair, but no one cares about you—except for William.

The number of blood samples taken from you has left you anemic, your body desperately fighting the threat of it. Your arms are mottled with purple marks; your complexion is pale and wan. But you persist through your training, benefitting from the special meals prepared for your health. They’re concerned about you, but it’s not out of pity; it’s for a larger purpose. Anemia would reduce the number of red blood cells in your blood, which directly impacts the vaccine’s efficacy, leading to more failures.

When your father scolds you for this, you realize you are no longer surprised. It doesn’t even sting anymore. Even the lieutenant trains you treats better than him—strong and tough but quick to applaud and congratulate you when you finally beat her in a spar. Your father doesn’t offer the same. You’ve been a failure in his eyes since birth, and the reality remains unchanged; only the direction has shifted.

For a fleeting moment, you wish he would successfully create the vaccine—not for humanity’s sake. In your eyes, humanity is a lost cause. You’re curious to see if his attitude toward you would change if he succeeded. Maybe he’d look at you with love or admiration. But let’s be honest: deep down, you know that wouldn’t happen.

You’ve spent so long in the hospital that you’re itching to get out. The day you finally break free feels exhilarating. You think about taking a brief detour to escape the suffocating confines; however, before you can get far, you encounter an infected individual. In your surprise, you realize too late that a network you’ve never seen before lies right at your feet, one that sends out vibrations to all nearby infected. Yes, your skills have improved over the years; you can handle various weapons, but when faced with a horde, those arms are useless.

A cacophony rises from the cracked asphalt roads blanketed by green grass—one voice, then two, three, five, eight, and more. Your blood runs cold as you see a horde rushing toward you. Being immune won’t protect you; they’re driven solely by their primal need for nutrition.

You are the prey.

You sprint back toward the hospital, even though you know it’s futile, cursing yourself for stepping outside. Just then, a group of fireflies arrives in military vehicles, opening fire on the infected. As one vehicle pulls up to you, it takes out a runner just behind you, but there are more closing in. Suddenly, another runner lunges at you.

You struggle beneath this dreadful creature that sounds horrifying and looks even worse. With all your might, you attempt to raise your gun, but it’s useless. That’s when you got your second bite, right below your shoulder. The pain is overwhelming, consuming your senses entirely. All you can focus on is the location of the bite—the crushing pressure, the excruciating pain. You scream until your lungs feel like they’re on fire, convinced for a moment that your flesh is being torn apart. The agony spreads through your veins, radiating throughout your entire body. Since the pain dominates your attention, you don’t even notice when the soldier who shot the infected lends a hand to pull you up; you simply let him.

But more are coming—hundreds—relentlessly charging. The soldiers around you cast you bewildered glances, clearly aware of what just happened.

Once you’re taken back to the hospital, soldiers guide you by the arm to a different room in the emergency wing, just to be safe. One even gets scolded by a commander for aiming at you; it’s a rare sight for them. None have seen someone bitten before who hasn’t turned into one of those monsters.

The wound appears serious, likely deeper than the first, meaning it will take longer to heal.

Yet, you remain human—what luck.

The next day, your father brings you to the lab for more blood tests. To your surprise, he seems almost pleased about your new bite, showing no rage for your reckless escape. But William is furious and incredibly worried about you.

It takes up to two weeks for the new bite's effects to show in your blood results, and you return to your monotonous daily routine.

Boring.

July 2012.

One morning, your father walks into your room in a surprisingly good mood, which usually signals trouble for you. He promptly calls William in for a private chat. You find yourself bored out of your mind with their vaccination chatter. Your only hope is that they’ll abandon the vaccine nonsense, leave you alone, and go back to living like normal people. You can’t help but envy the folks outside who are just trying to survive. It’s absurd to dream of living like them, but the truth is, at least they’re free. And when it comes time to die, you think you’ll finally be free too. This hospital feels like a prison. People treat you like a lab rat—they don’t even bother to make eye contact when they take your blood. They don’t ask how you’re doing, and it’s painfully boring.

As you’re sketching in your notebook late at night, William quietly slips into your room. You hold on to the hope that he’s brought something to lift your spirits—a fully charged Walkman or perhaps one of your favorite comic books. But when you see the troubled look on his face, you realize this isn’t going to be a light-hearted chat.

"Come with me."

It’s a good offer, and you can’t refuse it—not if it’s from him.

You glance toward the door. Two soldiers standing guard, poised to thwart any attempt you might make to escape. You’re so crucial yet an absolute headache. William leads you out of the room, and as the soldiers start to follow, he raises a hand to stop them. “It’s alright,” he says.

“Where are we going?” you ask, confusion bubbling up. He doesn’t answer; he simply keeps walking. His arm wraps around you protectively, but you’re not sure why. You step into a room you’ve never seen before, filled with various supplies. William closes the door firmly behind you, grabs a large, dark backpack, and thrusts it into your hands.

“What’s going on, William?” You’re taken aback.

“Just take it,” he insists.

As you check the safety on the revolver he hands you and slip it into the back of your pants, you are even more bewildered. “What the hell is happening?”

“We don’t have time, and this might be our only chance,” he replies, urgency lacing his voice. He throws the bag over your shoulders. “It’s packed with supplies—enough for a few months.”

You nearly stumble under the weight. “Okay, I get that, but I don’t see the purpose yet.”

William’s eyes darken with concern and anger. “Your father has figured out how to produce vaccines.”

You’re stunned. “Isn’t that supposed to be good news?”

“To make that vaccine, you need... surgery. But there’s no way you’ll survive it.” His words hit you like a punch in the gut. You tremble as he wraps his arms around you, his voice quaking with emotion.

“I can’t let him do this. I can’t let him kill you. Damn humanity. Damn the vaccine. I won’t, babygirl. You’re like my real daughter. I won’t lose you.”

You stand frozen, numb, as your heart aches.

“He,” you breathe out, unable to say “dad.” “He’s chosen to sacrifice me, hasn’t he?”

William's continued sobs and silence say it all.

Of course, he has.

He cradles your face in his hands. “Promise me you’ll survive. As long as you’re alive, I can rest easy knowing you’re out there, just breathing.”

“Please come with me,” you plead. “I don’t even know where to go…”

“I need to distract them so you can escape. There’s a map in your bag. I’ve marked possible locations for the Fireflies and the FEDRA, and noted safe spots and soldier routes. When I find you again, we’ll join another group together. Never reveal your immunity, your identity, your name—not even mine. You’re someone else now, can you understand? Stay off the main roads and avoid open spaces. It will be hard, but I know you’ll make it. You are strong. You're 19 now.”

You nod, determination in your voice. “I promise I’ll make it, but you have to promise you’ll survive and come too.”

He tries to assure you with a confident look, but you can see it’s a façade. “I promise. Now you need to go. They’ll be here soon to take you for the surgery. I can't buy you any time if they realize you’re missing from your room.”

You fight back tears, a lump forming in your throat. “I need to know one last thing before I go.”

William takes a deep breath, preparing himself for your question.

“Is there really no other way to produce the vaccine?”

“There has to be a way—there's always a way. But your father…” He swallows hard. “That bastard is just—“

“Enough,” you interject, your voice shaky but steadier now. “I have my answer.”

April 2024.

Ten years have gone by. You’re still on the run, but now you’re more experienced—a young woman who’s tough to stop or defeat. For all this time, you’ve managed to survive alone, witnessing too much—haunting memories that invade your dreams, scars that linger on both your body and soul. You’ve been bitten three more times in this span. William never showed up where he promised. You waited for him for months, even years, placing a sign over to one of those wrecked cars at your meeting spot. The doll from your childhood—the one he gave you for your sixth birthday—remained untouched every time you returned. But still, he never showed up. Maybe something happened to him on the way. Maybe he gave up or maybe he never intended to come back.

Who knows?

And who cares? You certainly don’t anymore, not after what they did and what you had to do.

Now, casting a desperate glance at the map, you contemplate your next route. None of the places William marked as safe are safe anymore. The map has changed, you’ve changed, and so have your aspirations and goals.

In the meantime, you found a companion. 

You named him Taxi. 

A German Shepherd. 

You met him while scavenging for supplies, trapped next to a wrecked taxi—likely caught in a hunter’s snare. He’d lost a lot of blood from an injured leg, and if you hadn’t intervened, he would have died. At first, you felt indifferent; you couldn’t access emotions like before. But when you looked into his eyes and heard his whimpers of pain, you couldn’t ignore him. You helped lift him from his suffering, and since then, he’s never left your side.

From that moment on, that dog turned into your best buddy. He was an amazing pal, warmer than any human you knew, a loyal friend cared for you in ways no one else did and stood by your side, ever ready to protect you.

“What’s up with this Bella girl? Is she torn between Jacob and Edward or what? Is love really that complicated?” you ponder, glancing from the novel *Eclipse* in your hand to the taxi as you carefully walk along the cobblestone. Taxi barks twice. You laugh, “Are you saying I don’t get it because I haven’t read the first book?” Looking at the other novels on the back cover, you shrug. “Dude, the library was crawling with Clickers. It's all I could scrounge up.”

Moments later, Taxi growls, pulling you from your thoughts. You spot a runner nearby, his back turned but movements erratic—likely infected just days ago. You crouch behind a junked car, and Taxi stealthily lowers next to you. “Shh, it’s just one. I can take care of it,” you assure, pulling out your knife. You set the book on the ground and move quietly, letting the pages flutter with the wind, then dive at the runner just in time. You take him down with a swift stab to the throat, his loud, ominous growl echoing as he collapses. You wipe the knife on his ragged clothes and then on the fabric of your sleeve.

No one else is around; it's a relief.

Just then, you hear the rumble of tires approaching. Whistling to Taxi, you signal it to come closer. “Quick,” you say, darting behind the wheel of a nearby gasoline truck. You wait as two military vehicles pass by without stopping. As you recalled hearing on the walkie-talkie that the Fireflies were moving to Utah a few days ago, you couldn't help but wonder: who are they now?

You exhale in relief as they drive on. Just when you think it’s safe, the vehicle behind the other one halts, and you freeze. “Damn,” you mutter as someone opens the door and sees the runner you just took down. 

“Hey!” the driver calls, raising his hand to signal the vehicle in front to stop. 

The taxi growls low, and your nerves spike. You instinctively reach for your gun, loading bullets from your pocket into the chamber and flipping off the safety. Two people step out of the vehicle, examining the runner and muttering to each other. One gestures for the others, probably telling them to search the area. Soon, they all nod and scatter, weapons drawn, just as you had feared. 

Eight armed, trained individuals. They’re definitely looking for you; any other group would have kept driving after spotting an infected by the road. 

You glance at Taxi and point him the opposite direction. He leaves immediately—you’ve trained him well—but worry clings to you. Time is of the essence. You pick up a rock from the ground and throw it to the far side of the truck. As two of them turn, you take a steady aim and pull the trigger, hitting both in the head. 

Bull’s-eye. 

“What the hell?”

"She’s here—" Taxi lunges at the screaming womans throat and you take down the other one as he finish her off. Two people near the vehicle duck behind cover. The other one next to the woman who just got tackled raises a gun and fires at him, but you take him out too.

The remaining one, clearly of higher rank, shouts a warning to the others: "Don’t shoot her! Remember, we have orders to take her alive!" Another voice calls out, "Surrender! Now!"

“Come and get it, motherfucker!” you yell back, quickly pivoting toward the vehicle, aiming, and letting loose with your shots. Thankfully, they hesitate to return fire, giving you the chance to roll into the nearby grass. Taxi crouches down beside you. You signal him to hang tight behind a rock. "They can shoot at you, but they can’t hit me. Stay put.”

It takes a few tense moments to crawl through the grass until you reach the front of the enemy vehicle. You hear a shot ring out in the distance—just a scare tactic—and aim carefully before shooting at the tires of the vehicle behind you. As they scramble, you fling open the car door, dive into the driver's seat, and crank the engine.

“Hey!”

Ignoring their frantic shouts, you open the side door and holler as you take off, “Taxi! Come on!”

Taxi barks in response, sprinting toward the car, dodging gunfire, and leaps into the passenger seat.

“Good boy!” you laugh, giving his head a quick pat as you slam the door shut and hit the gas.

You flash them the middle finger through the window, taunting, “Suck it, fuckers!”

“Shoot the tires!” someone yells from behind.

"Don't let her get away!"

“No, no, no, don’t shoot the tires,” you grumble to yourself. It’s hard enough to steer in a straight line without swerving all over the road. Soon enough, they open fire, and you instinctively duck, while Taxi hangs out the window, barking.

“No, buddy, get down!” you scold him, swerving to the right in a desperate attempt to shield him. Suddenly, you feel a thud as one of the rear tires bursts, and the steering wheel slips from your control. “Damn it!”

Before you know it, the car flips over in a chaotic tumble. Without a seatbelt on, you are jolted violently, your head smacking against something hard. The last thing you hear is Taxi's cries of distress and the screeching of brakes as everything goes dark.

As you slowly open your eyes, a wave of excruciating pain surges through your head and radiates throughout your body. Realizing you’re lying down and catching a whiff of antiseptic, you attempt to sit up, only to find yourself strapped to a stretcher.

“Hey, take it easy,” you hear a voice cautioning you. It must be a medic, though dressed in civilian clothes.

"Where am I? Taxi... Where's my dog?" you manage to ask, panic creeping in.

“You've taken quite a blow to the head,” he replies. “You've got two fractured ribs as well. So how about you just stay still for now?”

“Where’s my dog?” you insist.

He rolls his eyes. “I didn’t see any dog.”

“If anything happens to him, I swear—”

“What are you going to do?”

That voice—Marlene.

Damn it.

How long have you been gone?

When did she show up, and... where were you?

“You’d actually burn the hospital down just for a dog? That’s so you,” she says, stepping a bit closer. You notice the deep lines on her face that have only gotten stronger over the years. “After all that time running around by yourself, it's pretty impressive what you've been through. But here we are, years later, and all you care about is your dog. I’ve never met anyone quite like you, you know.”

You give her a sarcastic look. “The hospital... Another attempt for a cure? Marlene, you really don’t give up, do you?”

“Maybe we’re alike in that way. But not in others. What you did back there was selfish. I lost thirty good men because of you."

“Cut it out and get to the point. You planning to take my blood or what?”

“No, you’re not leading this time. You’re going to be... a substitute.”

You raise an eyebrow. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?"

“It means we’ve found another immune person.” You’re taken aback; that’s highly improbable. “Just like you, she adapted to the virus after being bitten. This time, we’re definitely producing that vaccine.” Her eyes sparkle with hope, reminiscent of your father’s once-hopeful gaze.

“Oh, congratulations. Looks like you should be up for a Nobel Prize, Queen Firefly.”

Marlene lets out a lazy chuckle at your joke, but a flicker of something deeper crosses her face—a trace of sadness, perhaps. "What we have endured all this time is finally going to mean something."

“Sounds more like a cover-up to me.”

This time, anger flares in her eyes as she meets your glare. “I wouldn’t feel too relaxed if I were you. If we successfully develop the vaccine thanks to Ellie, we won’t need you anymore—and there are plenty of men itching for revenge. You get that, right?”

You match her menacing stare, though deep down, fear coils within you.

“Now, I’ve got to go. She’s being prepped for surgery,” she says, standing up.

"You mentioned that her situation is similar to mine." Marlene pauses but doesn't look at you. Remembering the virus intertwining with the brain, you murmur, “You know she won’t survive this surgery.”

She glances at you from the corner of her eye. “Yeah, I know," she answers coldly before turning her back and leaving the room.

You watch her go, noticing two armed soldiers waiting at the door. You find yourself wondering how many days have gone and how they found that girl, and you can't shake off your worry about Taxi.

However, at this moment, you should only be worried about yourself.

‘°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°TWO WRONGS, ONE RIGHT°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°’

Hours drag on.

Marlene never comes back to the room where you’re confined. Luckily, they untie you, but you still trapped. When a nurse enters to help you put on your hospital gown, you realize why they released your bindings. “Did the girl’s surgery go well?” you ask her. You don’t know her, but a bond forms from your shared condition, and a wave of sadness washes over you.

“It hasn’t started yet, but it’s almost time. You’ll be next,” the nurse replies.

You tense up. “Hey, what? Marlene didn’t say anything like that, I…”

The nurse explains, "Dr. Anderson believes that having two hosts increases the likelihood of creating a vaccine. They’ll start with her first, and then it will be your turn.’”

“You're going to kill us both,” you grunted.

The nurse stares at you, blankly. “You’re doing this for humanity and—"

You grab her by the throat. “If you utter anything about a ‘miracle’ or the ‘greater purpose,’ I’ll break your jaw.”

Her eyes widen as she pushes your hand away and calls out in alarm, “Open the door, I’m coming out!”

The soldiers at the door swing it open, weapons drawn, until she steps outside. They close the door behind her and stand watch. Through the frosted glass, you see her greet someone in the corridor. You strain to catch snippets of their conversation about the surgery.

“The girl’s been anesthetized; she’s ready.”

“Alright, prep the other girl. The nurses will let you know when it’s time. Today is crucial for all of us, so keep an eye out. Don’t let anything go wrong.”

“Good luck, doctor.”

From the clatter of voices and footsteps, you can tell you’re being held very close to the operating room. Tension fills your body. You have to act, or the fate you’ve been dreading for years will finally catch up to you—you’ll die.

And for a world so wretched.

Additionally, William previously mentioned that there is no guarantee the vaccine will be effective.

The room is small; they’ve stripped away your weapons and belongings, and the soldiers haven’t budged from the door.

You need a plan.

But what can you do? As you scan the room, thoughts race through your mind. Perhaps you could fashion a weapon from the syringes, but then what? How would you handle the soldiers?

Then, chaos erupts with the sound of gunfire.

“Shots fired! Shots fired!” someone shouts.

The commotion from the lower floors sends alarms ringing through the upper levels, yet the soldiers at the door remain on high alert, conversing amongst themselves. The gunfire continues, echoing louder. Whoever is responsible for this—could it be Fedra?

Yes, that makes sense.

"It's him!"

“Kill him! Kill him now!”

Him?

Just one person?

The sounds grow increasingly frantic, the shots puncturing the space, thinning the ranks of your captors. As each bullet finds its target, the noise fades somewhat. You feel a mix of relief and anxiety; the soldiers abandon their posts, heading into the corridor. Moments later, the air fills with the sound of bodies crumpling. The clatter of bullet casings and reloading comes closer, making you instinctively crouch down. You don’t dare open the door. Whoever it is, they move like a relentless machine, eliminating everything in their path.

After a brief silence, you cautiously crack the door open. You hear slow, deliberate footsteps, and when you catch a glimpse of the figure, you freeze.

A man in his forties or fifties stands at a distance with his back to you. Suddenly, he swivels his head, revealing his face in profile. His brows are furrowed in concentration as he grips an automatic rifle tightly. He moves forward with a skill, focus and calmness that’s almost savage. In that moment, you realize his intention. Perhaps the girl about to undergo surgery is this man's daughter or someone he really cares about.

Who else would go to such lengths for someone?

Cold-bloodedly killing fireflies one by one.

As the gunfire finally subsides, you push the door open a bit more and step out of the cursed room. You head to the other space where they’ve stashed your belongings. Just then, another gunshot rings out, followed by screams—woman’s screams, one of which sounds like the nurse came to your room earlier. You quickly grab your things and dart down the corridor. There's no time to change; you just need to escape the hospital as fast as you can. Though the backup team is supposed to be waiting, the silence is deafening. Bodies lie strewn across the floor, drenched in blood, as you navigate your way through the carnage.

You might have felt a twinge of sorrow for them if they hadn’t intended to kill you. But now, looking at them, there's no pity left in you. All you can focus on is escaping this place alive and finding your dog.

A short while later, you hear the voices of the team you were waiting for echoing through the hallways. As you descend to the lower floors, you start to map out your escape route. But just then, the sounds of running feet and shouting reach your ears from above, accompanied by a frantic radio transmission. “Crap! The doctor shot!” 

“Sir, the smuggler took one of the cars and got away with the girl!” 

“Damn! The other girl escaped too!” 

“Move to the lower floor immediately! Secure all exits!” 

“Find them! Hurry, hurry!”

Knowing you’re already on the lower floors, you sprint to the garage, praying to find a car there. If they managed to escape that way, maybe it could be your ticket out as well.

As luck would have it, there’s indeed a reliable car waiting for you. However, your peripheral vision catches something on the floor—a body. Damn it… it’s Marlene, shot multiple times with a pool of blood forming around her.

Once, this scene would have evoked pity for her, but not anymore. The trauma from your father has eroded any empathy you once had, leaving behind a hollow shell—a girl who is no longer innocent or naive.

Now, it’s time for you to do what you do best: running away.

Thanks to that man, you are alive and were able to escape.

June 2024. 

You're on the road again, running away once more. The car you "borrowed" from the fireflies barely lasted a month before you ran out of gas. Luckily, you stumbled upon your trusty dog Taxi near the hospital. He must have been waiting for you there, your only true companion in this harsh existence. The top part of one of his ears is torn, perhaps from the accident or maybe even a bullet. Regardless, he’s in decent shape, which is more than you can say for yourself.

About a week ago, raiders attacked, aiming to steal your supplies and worse. With your military training and the help of Taxi, you fought them off before they could succeed. You had a bullet lodged in your stomach that you managed to remove yourself. Even though you stitched the wound up, it’s become infected and is festering. You have no clue how much longer you can hold out without proper medical care or antibiotics. As the pain and fever drag you down, you stumble and hit the ground. Taxi licks your face, trying to nudge you back to your feet. “Don’t worry, old friend. I’m not ready to give up yet,” you gasp, struggling to breathe.

The heat is parching your throat, and there’s barely any water left. All that’s left in your bag is one last can of dog food you’ve been saving for Taxi. For three days now, you haven't eaten anything other than a meager portion of dried meat—so small it barely fits in your palm.

It’s the last you have. 

You've never encountered a situation this desperate, yet you refuse to throw in the towel. You press on, but worry about your condition creeps in. There must be something close by; you need to seek help or things will only spiral downward. Taking a moment, you pause to examine the map. While sipping the last of your water, you contemplate your next move. Heading straight north from SLC (Salt Lake City) seemed logical once then, but now you’re filled with doubt. This decision wasn’t only yours; William had marked an area around Wyoming on the map, but he never noted what it was. It’s not a safe zone or a Quarantine Zone, so what lies there? The marked region extends into Idaho and encapsulates Yellowstone Park. You find yourself at the edge of that circle right now. You have no idea what awaits you there, but you’re out of options. You’ve seen too much already—or so you hope.

What could be worse than this?

As you push forward, you spot a sign, half-destroyed, reading “Etna Village Estates” at the top. The rest of it is illegible, but you can barely make out the phrase “Single Family Home Sites.” Ironically, the word ‘Family’ is almost obliterated, leaving just the letter “y.”

As you venture down the road, you glimpse a few lodge-like houses and some wooden structures. A market sign catches your eye, and the horses tied up nearby bring you to a halt. Taxi starts growling; someone must be inside. You scan the area, but no one appears to be around. When you decide to sneak around back, a scream pierces the air, followed by a gunshot and more screams.

“They must be fighting off infected,” you mutter as Taxi barks anxiously. You look at him, remembering the hard lesson learned over the years: never help anyone. Every time you tried, you ended up hurt, regretting your choices. As you approach the horses, they grow restless; their owners are surely trapped inside—most likely in danger. Your first instinct is to take one of the horses and make a run for it. After all, one of them has a saddlebag filled with supplies; you could survive a little longer. But your conscience pulls at you.

“Damn it.”

You pull your revolver from your side and peer through a broken window of the market, glancing back at Taxi. “Let’s do this.” Taxi hops inside, clearly more eager than you are. “One day, my fuckin' conscience get us both killed,” you murmur as you enter. Gunshots fire from ahead, though not in a steady stream. Instead, voices spill out, and you inch closer, careful to assess who’s inside and their condition first.

“Where did it go?” 

“Damn it! What kind of infected are these?” 

“Behind you, behind you!” 

“Shoot! Shoot!”

Between the shelves, you spot two men, two women, and a little child. One of the women is pregnant, her belly noticeably protruding.

Shit.

These are the bastards you fear the most, more than the clickers themselves. You must come up with a plan immediately; you know you have to save these people since they stand no chance against them.

“Taxi,” you whisper, and he meets your gaze. You gesture, indicating to approach from behind. One of the stalkers stands right in front of you, his focus diverted to the others—it might be your only chance. Taxi growls softly in agreement and stealthily moves forward while you take the right side. There are more damn stalkers than you realized, prompting you to adjust your strategy. You decide to stalk them from behind, switching to your long-barreled rifle and attaching the scope you found last week for this critical moment. Climbing to a higher vantage point, you feel a sharp pain from the wound in your stomach, but you don’t care—you’ll deal with that later.

From atop the shelves, you take stock of the situation, knowing this drill well. You count five stalkers; the others have surrounded them, poised to attack.

Good.

You settle your rifle on your shoulder, positioning a cloth behind the butt to cushion the recoil, and focus on Taxi. You whistle to get him to pounce, and as he barks, leaping at one of the nearby stalkers, you take a deep breath, steady yourself, and aim. You take out one to the right of the pregnant woman and another behind the child. A third stalker flees between the shelves, but that’s fine—you’ll get it later. As one stalker approaches, you shoot before it can scramble up, dropping it instantly. That’s three down. You quickly dispatch the one struggling with Taxi, making it four.

It’s time to head down.

As people stare at you in disbelief, you grab the shotgun and notice another stalker closing in from behind. “Move!” you shout, aiming and firing.

The stalker goes down—five in total.

“Ugly bastard,” you mutter, eyeing the stalker’s shattered face as it crumples to the ground. The pregnant woman looks at you, a mix of nerves and caution flickering in her eyes as you lower your shotgun.

The others remain frozen in shock, their mouths hanging open.

“Who are you?” the pregnant woman asks.

“The one who just saved your asses.”

They exchange glances, weary and anxious, but a sense of relief washes over them.

“Thank you,” she says sincerely, glancing at the dog beside you.

Taxi growls softly; you shoot him a reassuring look. “Shh, calm down, buddy,” you say, gesturing for him to sit. He obeys right away, tongue lolling out.

“Smart dog,” the woman remarks looking at Taxi, then turning back to the group. “Is everyone okay?”

“Yes,” responds one, his voice shaky.

“Thanks to her,” adds another, nodding in your direction.

“Thank you,” another chimes in, eyes filled with gratitude.

You nod, but the ache in your stomach deepens, and you wince as you sense a stitch might have come undone.

“I’m Maria,” the pregnant woman says, extending her hand. “Our town is nearby. Come with us; we have a doctor who can take care of your wound. We owe you.”

Out of habit, you shake your head, trying to refuse. “No, I...”

Maria sizes you up. “You need help. Let us repay our debt. Thanks to you, these people can see their families again,” her hands resting protectively over her pregnant belly.

She’s right.

You need help—a shower, food, water. You couldn’t survive out here like this for even a day. Looking at Taxi, who seems to understand and barks, you can’t help but smile.

Finally, you turn back to Maria and nod. “Alright.”

‘°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°TWO WRONGS, ONE RIGHT°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°’

“Welcome to our town—Jackson,” Maria says, glancing back at you from her horse. You are behind her, captivated by the towering, endless walls made of solid lumber and trees. You can't tear your gaze away. Taxi barks up at you from below, sharing your astonishment and you respond him with a smile. As you draw near, the gigantic doors swing open, and a chorus of voices erupts from inside the town.

“It's Maria!”

“She’s back!”

“Tommy! She’s here!”

“Maria’s back!”

The moment the doors part, you spot a crowd gathering, and a tall man with curly black hair rushes toward your horse. He’s focused on Maria, helping her dismount before wrapping his arms around her and kissing her tenderly. Placing his hands on her stomach, he gazes at her, tension evident in his face. "Ya wanna do me in, don't ya? How in tarnation could ya just up and leave like that?"

“Sorry,” she replies.

You watch as the others rush toward their families, worry etched on their faces, all bombarding them with questions. From your perch on the horse, you take in the scene—their expressions reflecting both joy and concern. You wonder if this is what family feels like; the warmth of being cared for is a foreign concept to you. It feels surreal, almost like a stark contrast to your own shitty life.

As everyone turns to regard you with curious eyes, a wave of dizziness hits. Pressing your hand to your stomach, you suddenly feel something warm spreading across your palm—blood. You groan. The chatter morphs into a buzzing background noise until one word cuts through it all.

“Joel! Help her!”

Despite your struggle to keep your head clear, the moment you lock eyes with him, everything around you blurs.

Damn.

It’s him.

Your fuckin' savior.

You’ve seen his profile before while dealing with fireflies at the hospital, but now his full face is before you. For a man his age, he’s surprisingly handsome—his features clean, but his brow still furrowed, and the look in his eyes is far from friendly, echoing that day.

You draw his face more times than you can count in your notebook, always hoping for the chance to meet him again.

Before you know it, you’re sliding off the horse. Maria is saying something, Tommy is yelling at Joel, and someone's arms catches you just before you hit the ground.

As consciousness fades, you gaze up at the person holding you.

It’s him.

He is hurriedly carrying you effortlessly in his arms. You don’t care where he’s taking you.

It’s strange. 

You feel safe in his arms.

You've never felt safe with anyone before, even with William.

In that moment, you experienced a sensation you never knew existed.

A warmth, but in a strange sort of way.

Or could it be the sensation of blood pouring from your wound?

Perhaps these are the last moments of your life, and your brain is not braining.

You can’t quite discern whether it’s the warmth of dying or the warmth you feel for this man.

But part of you thinks it would be nice to see such a face before you fade away.

But then something shifts, bringing you back to reality.

You’re alive—not dead, at least not yet.

As he notices you looking at him, Joel’s expression changes; a subtle frown appears on his face while he carries you.

You can't help but smile at his reaction. “I can’t die without meeting you, Joel,” you think to yourself, holding onto that smile.

‘°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°TWO WRONGS, ONE RIGHT°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°’

Chapter 2: The Man You Make Uneasy

It’s been more than a month now—around 46 days or maybe closer to 50—but honestly, Joel isn’t the type to keep track of the days. He’s got his mind on something else…

Them.

Ever since Salt Lake.

He can’t shake off the memories of everyone he had to take out that day.  With each passing day, the weight of it all sticks with him, and letting go has proven to be a challenge. As he lies in bed, staring at the ceiling, he finds himself counting, reflecting on the faces he remembers—one by one.

He recalls the expressions on their faces before they died and the gasps for breath as he shot them with cold precision. It’s all burned into his memory, not just the recent events but everything over the past twenty years as well. He curses his memory for being so vivid, yet it’s unchangeable. This must be his own curse, he thinks, a price he pays for what he did. Like scars that will linger until his last breath, they serve as a pointless reminder of how he squandered everything in mere minutes, despite having fought so hard to do something good.

No regrets, though.

He’d do it all again if he had to.

His conscience is almost at ease—almost.

If that damned doctor hadn’t gotten in his way, maybe he’d feel completely okay, but that’s not how it turned out.

Why did the doctor have to interfere?

Unable to fall asleep again, he gets out of bed and heads toward Ellie’s room. The floorboards creak softly beneath his feet as he gently opens the door. Unlike him, Ellie is asleep, her face turned toward the wall, looking peaceful.

He hopes that’s the truth, but he won’t kid himself.

Every night, he finds himself wondering what might have happened if they hadn’t gone to the hospital. He runs through the possibilities in his mind, searching for every chance, but hope feels scarce with each passing night. The lies he tells Ellie are slowly eating away at him. He’s just doing what he’s always done best: pretending everything is okay. Some nights, he feels weak, lost, but then he reminds himself that he can't afford to indulge in such feelings.

He has a responsibility to Ellie; she must come first.

When she grows up and becomes an adult, she will understand why he did it; he hopes for that—not that he believes, but that he hoped.

The fireflies he had to deal with were there by their own choice, which gives him a bit of comfort. As long as he doesn’t think about that doctor, everything feels okay.

He might deserve the weight of his feelings, but as long as Ellie gives him that goofy smile and does her silly things, he can handle it.

Yes he can.

The emptiness in his heart is beginning to fill, the wounds of his past are healing.

Almost.

Ellie has settled into a space in his heart he never anticipated, wrapping it up in a way that feels warm. Still, he feels like something is missing—something he can't quite grasp, something that seemed to have been with him even before everything fell apart. It’s as if it was born with him, a void that will always remain, no matter what happens or how much he experiences.

He thinks of Jackson and the familiarity he saw in the people there. He’s lived a similar life once upon a time, but maybe he was too consumed by his work to notice it.

Who knows?

Perhaps it’s a curse passed down from his father.

It’s hard to say.

He never really felt a deep connection to anyone—maybe he had a strong bond with Tommy, but with Sarah, it was a different story; she meant everything to him. Yet, even that didn’t fill the void he felt.

Despite everything, he sensed something crucial was missing.

It always had been.

Speaking of Tommy, he spots him talking from a distance. Maria's belly is growing day by day, and he can read everything on his brother’s face. Even as a kid, Tommy’s expressions were like an open book. The bond between him and Maria is strikingly evident, almost tangible even from a distance. 

Tommy appears to be deeply in love with Maria.

True love.

Is this what’s missing in his life?

And why the hell he does he suddenly feel this way?

Perhaps it's because this town feels like God-damn fairy tale, where everyone appears to live happily ever after, affecting him in some way.

Herd mentality, he thinks—yeah, that makes sense.

He almost chuckles at the thought of falling for someone, or worse, someone falling for him, but it’s a fleeting notion. “Are you an idiot or somethin'?” he chides himself.

Joel later spots him in the communal dining hall and sees the worry etched on his face, yet he continues to eat his meal. It isn’t until he notices a few others behind him that he realizes they all share the same anxious expression. Tommy’s anxiety stands out a bit more—Joel can read his face better and understands it has something to do with Maria even before he hears the words spoken.

Joel listens his brother while swallowing his drink.

He was right.

At noon, Maria had left Jackson with the two people she had brought along to search for her sister, who had gone missing earlier that morning, and worry was spreading through the community. Joel refrains from asking the usual question about why Maria left without saying a word to Tommy, especially after her sister's departure. After getting to know her better during his time here, he realizes that bringing it up would only add to Tommy's concerns.

“Around Hoback?” Joel inquires as he and Tommy deliberate about which weapons to take with them.

Tommy shakes his head. “No, that area’s clear; it was taken care of durin' last week's patrol. Seth was leadin' them. She mentioned she dropped it near a market in Etna.”

Joel gazes at him sternly. “Five people out there over a dad gum it necklace?”

"And one of 'em's my pregnant wife,” Tommy replies with a heavy sigh.

Joel places a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Hey, I’ll find 'em. You stay here.”

Tommy shakes his head again, this time more decisively. “No, no. Ain't happenin'.”

He glances around the room. “I saw how people looked at you.”

"If I can’t bring her back, heaven help me if somethin' happens to her, can ya imagine how they'll look at me then?"

Joel checks the chamber of his S&W 66, gives the magazine a shake, and slams it shut with his palm. "Then we need to find yer headstrong wife 'fore the town gets any more riled up.”

Tommy looks at him, a mix of gratitude and determination in his gaze. Before Joel can close his backpack, shouts erupt—people are calling out and a few voices are screaming Tommy’s.

And then Maria's.

In an instant, Tommy drops what he’s holding and bolts toward the sound.

Joel tucks his gun into the back of his pants—an old habit—and races after him. The voices guiding them lead both men toward the massive gates, which suddenly swing open. Nearly half the town is gathered there, a mix of curiosity, joy, and anxiety on their faces. The air buzzes with murmurs; it’s been ages since such a crowd has gathered.

In that moment, Joel realizes just how much Maria means to everyone. Meanwhile, Tommy is totally fixated on finding her and making sure she’s alright.

And there she is.

As she ride her horse through the gates, Tommy sprints toward her.

Although Joel lagged behind, he picks up his pace. Spotting Ellie in the crowd, he notices she was with a girl he doesn't know, but that doesn’t matter for now.

He kept close behind his brother.

Unlike everyone else, it isn’t Maria who catches his eye first; it's the stranger behind her.

He glances at the girl, his interest piqued.

Later Maria and Tommy call to him, his gaze remains locked on that mysterious figure. Their voices fade into a humming blur, but it's not because of a lingering deafness in his ear.

It feels different.

But then the girl’s eyes roll back, and she sways slightly in the saddle, Tommy’s voice cutting through the moment.

“Joel! Help her!”

He doesn't.

He hesitates.

In those fleeting seconds, the stranger's eyes suddenly snap to focus on him.

Strange, unsettling, threatening.

That’s the instinctive feeling that washes over Joel.

Just as she’s about to tumble, breaks eye contact, he rushes forward and catches her before she hits the ground. He’s not sure if it’s the urgency in Tommy’s voice or a genuine instinct to keep her from getting hurt, but holding her in his arms feels surprisingly natural.

It seems easy.

Like it meant to be.

Not in terms of strength but in another way he can’t quite place.

Tommy and Maria urge him to hurry, and as others are reunited with their families and tell them what they faced, Joel races toward the clinic.

He suddenly gets that he’s in a rush to help someone he doesn’t even know, and he looks down at the woman he’s carrying.

She returns his gaze with a languid yet meaningful expression.

As if.

As if she knew him.

As if she could read him.

Joel frowns, unsettled by the thought.

He resolves not to look back at her until he reaches the clinic.

As the doctor instructs that she be placed on the stretcher, he glances down and sees her eyes are closed. Stepping back, he allows the doctor to continue his examination, but questions swirl in his mind. Joel finally turns and walks out, his nerves getting the better of him. Just then, he notices something—the girl’s clothes and the weapons she carries. At that moment, Tommy and Maria arrive at his side.

“Has the doctor seen her yet?” Maria inquires, and Joel responds nonchalantly.

“They’re takin' a look. How ya doin'?" His gaze shifts to her belly.

“That’s what we came to find out,” Tommy replies.

“I’m fine, we both are,” Maria says, placing her hand over her belly. “Thanks to that girl.”

Joel and Tommy exchange glances.

It’s their way of communicating silently, kind of saying, 'We should talk about this.'

Upon entering the clinic, the doctor leads the girl into the triage room, where Maria notices he has lifted her shirt to inspect her wound.

“How’s she holding up?” Maria asks.

"The wound is infected; it looks like it happened a while ago," the doctor says.

“Y'all oughta see if she been bit,” Joel suggests cautiously, prompting Maria to turn sharply in his direction.

“We’ve spent hours together; we’d notice,” she responds.

“How exactly did she save y’all? All four of ya?" Tommy probes.

Maria gives him a sideways glance. “We need to discuss this privately; we might have to hold a council meeting.”

A tense silence hangs between the brothers.

The doctor steps out to take Maria into the examination room, leaving Tommy and Joel outside.

“How could she brin' her here?” Joel questions.

“You heard her—she saved her life an' them others. She's plumb grateful, an' so am I,” Tommy replies.

“But she didn’t do it out of goodness of her heart.”

“Why not?”

"Did ya see them weapons on her? A revolver? .29 caliber? That'll outgun my .66. An' a sniper rifle? .338? That's the kinda gear Fedra's best shots use." Tommy's fidgetin' with his jeans waistband. "What if she's infected? Didn't Maria say we gotta be careful? Shouldn't she be pickin' like she did with Ellie when them dogs sniffed us out?"

As they speak, a German shepherd approaches, followed by two people. “Hey, wait!”

Tommy and Joel turn around.

“Where’d this dog come from, Dan?” Tommy asks, watching it bark at him.

“Tommy, it’s that girl’s dog. Ain't no way we can catch it,” Dan responds.

Tommy cautiously approaches, the dog barking towards the clinic.

“I think he’s caught her scent,” he concludes with a chuckle. “Well, Joel, I think that settles yer questions and suspicions.” He heads inside.

The dog looks back at Joel and barks once.

In that moment, Joel’s attention is drawn to the dog’s torn ear, triggering a distant memory.

He recalls the time he’d seen this dog before, back when he rescued Ellie from the Firefly hospital. It was right after he had killed Marlene. After placing Ellie in the car, a Firefly soldier had opened fire at him. Just then, the dog leaped at him, allowing Joel to escape with Ellie. He hadn’t cared what became of the dog, but he remembered seeing a bullet gone through its ear in his rearview mirror.

He had thought the dog was dead, yet now here it was, standing before him, tongue lolling out and looking at him as if remembering their shared past. It barked once, and when it barked again, Joel was jolted from his thoughts, flooded with questions about that day, this dog...

And the girl.

Who exactly is this girl?

‘°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°TWO WRONGS, ONE RIGHT°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°’

“Increase the dose.” 

“Take more; it should be applied to other test subjects.” 

“Just do it!” 

“You will kill her!” 

“Enough!”    

All those voices. 

You catch snippets of them sometimes as you try to drift off to sleep. You wish they would fade away into mere sounds, but instead, they dredge up memories of those days.It's been a while since you've heard them; you've chosen music on your Walkman over those haunting echoes. It's one of the little things that William tucked into your bag—a sweet memento from those good days you shared together.

The music helps you zero in, especially the soothing, soft kind—lots of instrumentals, less noise, and minimal vocals. This way, it's easier to block out the ominous sounds tied to your memories.

Each one leaves its mark, like the bruises that turn into permanent scars on your arms, remnants of countless needle pricks, and... bites. 

Those sounds... 

That smell. 

It's like you can somehow feel it now. 

But it’s not something from your past.

The sharp, acrid scent that suddenly fills your nostrils explains why those memories come rushing back. It's the same stench that permeates those recollections—the smell you detest the most. It feels like it’s fused with your father’s essence.

Ominous, cold, excruciatingly painful. 

As you open your eyes, for a fleeting moment, you think you see him again: the stark white lights, that same smell, the familiar instruments—but this time he's dressed in civilian clothes, his gaze warm and intent on healing you, not on cutting you open for a damn vaccine.

It is not him.

Still, you're wary.

You instinctively grasp the hand that moved to pull your shirt up, aware that he means no harm. But with the bite marks on your body, you can’t shake the fear that something could go horribly wrong, or worse, your secret might spill out. 

“Relax; the wound is infected. It’ll get worse if I don’t treat it,” he says. 

Reluctantly, you release your grip. As he cleans and medicates the wound, you clutch the edge of the patient bed. Glancing around, you're struck by the haunting familiarity of the space—this isn’t a hospital, but it almost feels like one. 

“Did you stitch your wound yourself? Impressive.” He says, trying to keep your mind off the pain. 

“Where’s my dog?” 

Your unexpected question catches him off guard. He pauses for a moment, glancing at your face, before continuing to stitch. “I’m just a doctor here. You were unconscious when Joel brought you in.” 

Joel. 

That name hits you like a jolt.

Where is he?

Did he really just leave you like this?

Wait.

Why would he stay?

After all, he doesn't know who you are.

Suddenly, the triage curtain swings open, and you feel a wave of relief wash over you as a familiar face steps through. 

“Ethan? How is she now?” Maria smiles at you. 

“I cleaned and stitched the wound; it should heal in a few days,” he explains as he wraps a bandage around you. “But to prevent infection, we’ll need to take this off—” 

In a panic, you grasp his hand. “I won’t take any damn thing off.”

"Your clothes all dirty and creates infection." he explains, though you pushing his hand away.

Maria approaches, there’s a hint of caution in her eyes. “We’re just tryin' to help you.” 

“Maria.” 

The man comes beside her, presumably her husband, glances at her first before turning to you. His smile is warm, almost sincere, yet still cautious. “You’re awake.” It’s more of an observation than a question. He extends his hand. “I’m Tommy. We’re all grateful for what you did. Me most of all.” 

When was the last time you shook hands with someone?

A few instances back in the QZ, maybe. As you timidly extend your own hand to shake his, you sense their eyes watching your uncertain movements. “Yeah, sure. But what about my guns, my stuff, and my dog?” 

“Your dog's just outside, waitin' for you—a loyal companion, I must say. But for security reasons, we'll need to take him to the kennel with the others. As for your weapons, we can’t return them right away—” 

“But they’re yours, still you can’t use them inside Jackson’s walls,” Maria says in a friendly way. “Everyone’s unarmed here. We only pull out our weapons when we’re outside.”

You wrap your arms around yourself. “When can I leave?” 

They exchange glances, and Maria turns to you. “Do you want to leave?” 

“Why would I want to stay?” 

They share another look—this time with faint smiles—before turning to you with the same expression. Maria asks, “How ‘bout a tour?”

As you and Maria stroll through the town, she shares the fascinating story of how it was founded. She explains the measures taken to protect it from looters and the infected after the outbreak, highlighting how it evolved from a gated community. The town boasts restaurants, laundromats, farms, schools, and all the essentials for daily living. It's a far better existence compared to life in the QZ. Everything operates on a barter system, and each person has a designated role in the community. The books you discover in wrecked, derelict shops fill time. They overflow with communist ideologies, exploring the idea of a communal life that feels almost dreamlike.

“So, you’re a bit of a communists, huh?”

You notice Tommy's face go serious, and it makes you wonder why. Maria just laughs it off. “Yeah, you could say that. But let’s just keep it on the down-low.” Then she whispers. “He heard this before.”

At that moment, some people approach Maria and ask how she’s doing, their eyes lingering on you the entire time. You look away, unsure if you are now famous in town or if your clothes appear filthy compared to theirs.

Maria and Tommy lead you to the communal dining area. As soon as you step inside, the aroma of food hits you hard, making you gulp. You dig in ravenously, almost choking in your haste, oblivious to their puzzled expressions because your hunger takes precedence. “This is absolutely fuckin' amazing,” you exclaim.

“You must have been travelin' for quite a while,” Tommy observes. “Wasn't it tough bein' on your own?”

“I wasn’t alone; I had Taxi,” you answer, your mouth full, not bothering to look up as you focus solely on the tempting meal before you.

Noticing their silence, you add, “My dog,” and continue to devour your food.

Tommy chuckles, “That’s quite a unique name for a dog.”

“Don't you have a family or anyone else with you?”

Your chewing slows, avoiding their gaze. “No, ma'am. It's just me and my old buddy.”

Your responses seem logical, yet they don’t seem fully satisfied, although they don’t push for more.

Instead, they appear relieved.

Maria glances at Tommy. “I’m sure she’d like a shower and some fresh clothes.”

You look down at your filthy, torn clothes and the dirty hand clutching the spoon.

Damn, she’s right.

“We can put her in the empty house near Joel's. It’s small but decent.”

This time, you lift your head and meet their eyes.

Tommy purses his lips, his arms crossed. “Pretty untouched since ’03, like his. But that place really needs some cleanin'.”

“We’ll take care of it by tomorrow. Tonight…” Maria meets your gaze. “She can stay at our place,” she says with a warm smile.

Tommy’s expression shifts slightly.

You raise your hands. “No, no, I—”

“We insist,” she interrupts, leaning in toward you. “Right, Tommy?” She turns to him, raising her eyebrows, clearly seeking his agreement.

Tommy nods slowly, “Yeah, sure. We’d be glad to have you over, kinda owe you that much, I suppose.”

 

‘°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°TWO WRONGS, ONE RIGHT°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°’

 

Walking through Maria's house, you can’t shake the creepy feeling of being watched. The townspeople are eyeing you like you're a curiosity.

“Do they always stare like this?” you ask, wrapping your arms around yourself, feeling uneasy under their gazes.

“It’s just that they don’t see someone like you every day. Kind of like that time we brought Joel and Ellie into town,” Maria says.

You raise your eyebrows, intrigued to hear their names mentioned together for the first time.

“Joel,” you whisper, recalling him who took you to the clinic. “He and Tommy seem close. Maybe they’re brothers?”

Maria beams at you. “That’s right.”

“And Ellie is Joel’s...?”

“Someone he sees as his daughter.”

Good.

You prefer that phrasing over “wife" or "girlfriend.”

“She’s a good girl. You’ll meet her soon since you’ll be neighbors.” With that, she opens the door to her home, welcoming you inside.

You can’t help but wonder what Joel is really like, especially since it seems Maria is avoiding that topic.

Maria’s home feels inviting—cozy and warm, a stark contrast to everything you’re used to. Upstairs, she hands you some items for a shower, saying, “I’m gonna go trade for some clothes. Make yourself at home.”

As she steps out, her words lingers.

Make yourself at home.

You’ve never truly had a home before.

You’ve never known that warmth, but somehow it resides in this house.

The bathroom is impressively clean, and you feel a twinge of guilt as you drop your dusty, dirty clothes on the floor. Seeing your reflection, you cringe at the sight. Your skin is marked with dirt and dried blood, remnants of your harrowing journey. The memory of Joel’s disgusted expression when you first met him makes you bristle.

No wonder why he looked at you like that.

Even your face not clear like this.

You undress completely, examining the scars and bite marks scattered across your body—on your thigh, upper arm, over right breast, leg, and the edge of your palm. You haven't had a chance to look at them in a while. You cut the one on your palm and lower leg with a knife when they were still fresh, turning them into cuts, but the others are clearly bites.

Marks that no one should see.

You think of Ellie—does she have a similar mark, and how does she keep it hidden?

Do Tommy and Maria know she’s immune like you are?

Even if they did, they likely wouldn’t share that with you. You’re still a stranger, much like Ellie was when she arrived. But they have welcomed her, and now they have opened their arms to you too.

You still can’t trust anyone, not now and perhaps not ever.

You made a promise to William.

After your shower, you feel rejuvenated in the bathrobe Maria provided. Seeing your clean face in the mirror for the first time since escaping your father fills you with a bittersweet nostalgia. Always on the run, a reflection felt like a luxury you could never afford.

In this town, however, this is just part of their daily routine. Everyone lives as if they’ve never seen hardship, and you can’t help but admire that. At the sound of footsteps, you tense up instinctively, your body trained to remain on high alert. When you hear a knock at the door, you wrap yourself tightly in your robe.

“It’s me, Maria.”

You crack the door open slightly.

Maria stands there, a big grin on her face, holding some new clothes. Her eyes go wide when she sees your clean face. “Whoa, who are you?” she jokes. 

You can’t help but smile back. 

"I just realized you haven't told me your name yet." 

You quickly say the first name that pops into your head: “Kat.” You hope she doesn't ask for more.

“Nice to meet you, Kat. Go ahead and get dressed,” she says, turning to give you some privacy. You close the door and let out a sigh. Kat—Kathleen—was the name of William's daughter who tragically died young, long before the outbreak. The name might have reminded you of him, like a dad you always wished you could have.

But where is he now?

Is he alive?

This spot was marked on his map, but what’s the deal? There are definitely some links here that you might not get yet, but you’re eager to figure it out.

As you slip into the clothes Maria brought, you find yourself lost in thought. Questions swirl in your mind, but answers seem elusive. All you can do is cling to hope—a feeling that’s become foreign to you.

So, you decide to do something you’ve learned to manage over the years: let it go.

When you catch your reflection once more, your gaze is hollow, staring blankly as if it belongs to someone else entirely.

Strange.

Maybe underneath of this beautiful face, you catch a glimpse of what's inside, all that she’s endured.

All the things you did to survive.

Good things and bad things.

A sudden wave of guilt washes over you, prompting you to look away.

You roll up the sleeves of your shirt, tuck your hair behind your ear, and leave the bathroom.

You notice that the upper floor is dim, an indication that evening has set in. A few voices drift up from below—Maria's, Tommy's, and a deeper, velvety voice that’s undeniably captivating.

However, the tone carries a subtle tension, creating a beautifully compelling contrast with its essence.

You make your way to the stairs and grasp the banister.

It’s him.

Joel.

Of course.

It couldn't possibly be anyone else's voice.

You’ve pictured his voice countless times while sketching his face, but the reality far exceeds your imagination. It’s the kind of voice that makes you wish you could listen to him talk non-stop.

Taking a seat on the steps, you decide to do just that—listen.

They’re far enough away that they can't see you; Maria and Tommy have their backs turned. You hunch down slightly, catching sight of them, and you realize that only Joel might notice you if he looks up. You have no ill intentions, but as the conversation shifts to you and escalates into a heated debate, you lean in to hear better, focusing on Joel’s words rather than just the tone.

“I get lettin' a stranger into town, but what’s the sense in bringin' her into your home? Before you know it, we won’t have enough room for everyone we take in,” he argues. "I thought you were all about protectin' this town and keepin' the 'wrong people' out."

"We were, and we still are. Just like we did for you. You’re not one of the 'wrong people', and neither is she," Maria replies, a hint of frustration in her voice.

"Just one girl, Joel,” Tommy interjects, trying to calm both Maria and his brother.

“And that girl saved my life, along with the lives of the other four of us. Five, even,” she adds, placing a hand over her belly.

“You and your sister have dealt with the infected before, and you could manage it again. You had two men with you. How did you get in such a bad spot that you needed a 'just one girl’s help?” Joel presses.

“No, these were different. That’s why I called you over,” Maria responds, her worry evident.

Joel places his hands on his hips, demanding, “How different?”

“They were smart. They didn’t attack us directly. They... observed.”

Tommy and Joel exchange a surprised look.

Just then, you chose to make your grand entrance, descending the staircase. “Stalkers,” you say, echoing off the last step, and all three of them turn to you. You catch Joel’s gaze from the side, noting the scar on his right temple as deep inside you resist the urge to question him about it. “I call them that. They stalk you. They’ve got just enough intelligence to devise a plan. Sure, they can’t solve a math problem, but they can ambush you and strike at the right moment.”

Your eyes remain locked with his, and you notice how Joel's gaze lingers on your face. The rich brown of his eyes captivates you, and you can’t help but feel a warmth stirring inside. His Adam’s apple moves as he swallows, and you fight the urge to smile. In that moment, you’re overcome by an indescribable attraction; you feel an electric charge, the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end.

You suspect he feels it too; surely, this sensation can't be one-sided.

He’s the first to look away, which is probably a good thing because you might not have done so.

Awkwardness settles in, as if you hadn’t just discussed creatures more dangerous than clickers.

Tommy and Maria, unlike you two, appear tense, their eyes darting in panic. “We need to gather the council,” Tommy says. Joel remains calm, simply nodding, you realize its his usual composure.

“I think you were discussing me before the stalkers,” you say, looking directly at Joel. He doesn’t return your gaze, but you persist. “I’ll pack a few things and head out with my dog and my belongings first thing in the morning.” Your eyes shift to Maria. “I suppose being a communist isn’t really my thing after all,” you add with a hint of sarcasm, and turn toward to stairs.

“We could really use your help, and this is a decision we’re not going to make unilaterally,” Maria states, glancing pointedly at Joel.

Joel shrugs, rolls his eyes, and glances at you before making his way to the door. “Right,” he says, slamming the door behind him.

“Don’t mind that grumpy ol' man,” Tommy reassures you. “We want you to stay,” he adds, exchanging encouraging looks with Maria.

“Yeah, just stick around. It’s risky out there alone. You’re lucky to have made it this far,” Maria says.

You nod slowly in response. “Alright then, but I really want to see my dog in the morning.”

 

‘°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°TWO WRONGS, ONE RIGHT°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°’

 

In the morning, as Tommy walks you across the street to your new house, you can't help but ask about your dog, Taxi. He insists you check out the house first, and you agree. He mentions he’ll be a bit tied up today because there’s a council meeting later on.

"Life in a small town, huh?" you remark.

He laughs. "Shoot, it feels like a dang dream. That’s exactly what I thought when I first came here."

"Did you come here later?"

"Well, Maria an' her crew found me up an' brought me here; it's been a couple years now."

"You? Not with Joel?" you inquire, noticing a shift in his expression.

"Naw, Joel and Ellie ain't been 'round here long, just a few months. C'mon now," he says, pushing open the garden gate. "Speakin' of, this is where they live," he points to the house next to yours, which is a bit larger.

"Hey, Ellie!" Tommy shouts.

A girl wearing a hooded long sleeve waves from a distance and then quickens her pace upon spotting you. "Hey, what's up? You gonna say you're takin' me to the KP?"

"I shouted over to you so you could meet your new neighbor."

You smile at Ellie; she looks like a tough but cute teenager, reminiscent of your own. "Hey."

"You're that badass everyone's been buzzing about, huh? I’ve been dying to meet you. Hey, Joel! Come meet our new neighbor!"

The door cracked open, and Joel steps out onto the porch. He glances first at Tommy and then at you. "Neighbor?"

"We’re having the house cleaned today." Tommy explains.

"But some of the fence is broken, and the plumbing’s been actin' up. I checked," Joel replies.

"So you’ll lend her a hand, right? Ain’t that what neighbors are for?"

Joel’s expression darkens as he glares at Tommy. He quickly looks away. "I have to run now. Ellie can take you to the kennel, yeah? She goes there all the time."

Ellie grins. "Sure," she says, casting a look at Joel before focusing back on you. "Well, welcome to our neighborhood," Ellie says, giving Joel a light pat on the shoulder. "Joel, say welcome."

Joel rolls his eyes but complies. "Welcome," he mutters before heading back inside.

You smile. "Thanks, Joel," but he doesn't look back.

Ellie rolls her eyes, mutters something.

"Is he always like this?" you ask.

"That's a better version of him. Joel 56."

You share a laugh at her joke. "Which Apollo would you compare him to?" you ask. She raises her eyebrows. It’s kind of funny actually that you brought up Apollo. It might seem weird to someone to be interested in that stuff, but you’re totally surprised when she starts laughing and joining in.

Looks like she’s into it too.

"13," she responds.

You nod, getting the reference. “So, like, a successful failure, right?” 

"I'd rather not call it a failure." 

“Totally, me neither. It's something I read in a book a while back.” 

Ellie grins, her eyes shining. "I think we're gonna get along great." 

“You know what? I seriously don’t give a fuck about this house right now. I miss my dog. Can you take me to see him?” 

Ellie smirks. “For sure.”

As the two of you walk down the street, chatting and laughing, Joel watches you from the window, feeling a sudden wave of concern. He opens the door, ready to call out to Ellie but hesitates. He’s taken aback by how close she seems to someone she barely knows. Something about it makes his stomach churn—not to mention a hint of jealousy creeping in, he thinks, almost like a father protective of his daughter.

He can’t shake the feeling that there’s something this girl isn’t revealing. Even stranger is the sense that he knows her from somewhere, which he finds absurd.

His memory isn’t that faulty; if he’d encountered her before, he would remember.

But there's a nagging feeling that he can’t shake. It’s been there since the first time he laid eyes on her.

Life after the Outbreak has taught him a thing or two—he’s become skilled at reading people at a glance: scum, good (even that concept has shifted for him), or a threat that needs to be eliminated—and he prides himself on rarely being wrong.

But this girl...

She represents both everything and nothing he’s encountered before.

It’s hard to be certain.

All he knows is he wants to find out more.

Yes, he really wants to.

He hasn’t craved anything this deeply in quite some time.

He’s unsettled by the feelings welling up inside him.

Who is this girl who just waltzed into their lives and stirred such emotions within him?

Once Ellie and you have vanished from sight, Joel stands on the porch for a good few minutes, scanning the area to ensure no one witnessed his moment of awkardness. He eventually heads back inside, muttering angrily to himself, "The fuck am I doin'?" and returns to whatever task he had been engaged in.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

“Hey buddy!”

Taxi, who is confined to a separate cage, lunges toward you, but the bars keep him at bay. Still, he manages to poke his tongue out and lick your cheek, making you giggle. “I know, I know, I’ll get you out of here, I promise.”

“Well, I don’t think they’ll let it,” Ellie says, reaching through the bars toward Taxi.

You raise an eyebrow. “What? Why?”

Ellie shrugs. “Jason's fuckin' security policies.” She mimics someone, moving her lips teasingly, and you can bet it's Maria.

“There are kids around.”

You both turn to see two tall young men standing behind you, one with light brown, looks like Asian and the other with blue eyes and blond hair, each holding large containers of dog food.

The Asian one explains, “All the dogs are kept here, no matter who owns them. But sometimes we take them for a walk around the area.”

“Jessie, Zach, didn’t know you two signed up to feed the dogs, guys,” Ellie teases.

Jessie narrows her eyes playfully. “Better than shoving sheep, I suppose.”

“What do you feed them?” you ask, eyeing the large plastic containers in their hands.

Zach steps closer and opens the adjacent cage, where four eager Dobermans greet him. “Mostly leftovers. A bit of meat here and there.”

“Wow, it’s been a while since Taxi had meat,” you notice, watching him bounce excitedly.

“Then he’ll love this,” Zach replies, smiling as he opens Taxi’s cage. He’s a good-looking young man, friendly but probably younger than you.

“Taxi is such a cool name,” Ellie giggles. “I fuckin' love it.”

“Yeah, if you entered a naming contest, you’d have taken first prize,” Zach laughs, and you all exchange strange glances as he chuckles nervously. “My dad said they used to have contests like that before the outbreak.”

“Wow, that sounds unbelievable,” Jessie remarks.

“We were born in the wrong era, dude,” Ellie mutters.

“I remember it, though I was very young. I saw it on TV,” you say, recalling your memories of the pre-outbreak CDC while stuck there with your father. Everyone turns to look at you now. “Yeah, I guess I’m older than you all.”

While Jessie and Ellie busily tend to the other cages, Zach closes Taxi’s cage and looks at you. “My father says; age is just a number."

“That’s one of those comforting lines people say as they get older,” you respond without meeting his gaze.

“Yeah, it explains why he started using that line after his fifties,” he continues. “I heard from Tommy that there’s a plumbing issue at your house and your roof needs fixing. Um, winter is coming soon. And... My father taught me a bit about repairs and plumbing…”

You sigh internally as he keeps rambling, your patience wearing thin.

Come on, just get to the point already, you think.

“So, what I’m saying is, I can help.”

You look at him.

For some reason, he seems genuinely eager, even though you’ve just met him. You feel inexperienced in handling these kinds of situations, and the notion of someone wanting to help you unsettles you. You know it shouldn’t, but you can't shake it off.

“Well, thanks, I guess,” you reply weakly.

Zach beams, clearly pleased. “I’ll swing by once I finish the vegetable counting job.”

“Alright.”

You watch him walk away with Jessie, heading off to vegetable picking and counting, sheep herding, pig farming, house repairs, KP duty, and more.

A completely outbreak-free town life.

You’re so out of your element with everything feeling normal that it almost seems off.

Yeah, it’s weird.

Damn survival instincts.

“You’ll get used to it.” Ellie’s voice breaks your train of thought as she reappears. “I felt like a fish out of water when I first got here too, especially after growing up in a QZ. And with everything that’s gone down,” she adds thoughtfully, a shadow crossing her features.

You can’t help but wonder if she’s referring to Salt Lake. But you know you can't dive into that conversation just yet. You’re unsure about how much she knows.

You and Ellie chat about space as you make your way to the town’s food court for lunch. It's quite a change from what you’re used to, but at least it feels better than being treated like a lab rat. After taking the pill your doctor gave you, you choose your meal and sit down at the same table as Ellie. As you eat, she can’t help but laugh at how quickly you’re devouring your food.

“What’s so funny?” you glare.

“Man, this takes me back to months ago. You’re reminding me of when Joel and I first arrived. I was a wilder eater than you. You should’ve seen Maria and Tommy’s faces.”

You shrug. “I haven’t had a proper meal in ages.”

Ellie pauses, her smile turning understanding. “Same. You must’ve had a tough journey getting here, huh?”

You slow down your chewing. “It’s never a walk in the park for anyone, but I grew up in a nightmare. My life was a mess even before the outbreak. Let’s just say I’m used to it.”

“O-kay,” Ellie says, closing down the topic, and you’re grateful. “I’d better go, now,” she says, standing up. “See you later, Kat.”

“See you, Ellie,” you say as you watch her walk out the door. You remember her sharing the story of how and when she met Joel, but you still don't know the full extent of what they went through before arriving in Salt Lake. She probably kept those details to herself because she was trying to hide the truth about her immunity, and you can almost bet that Joel was concealing what happened in the hospital from her.

So, you don’t blame him; you’re just grateful.

However, you get the impression that if she knows, Ellie wouldn’t seem grateful at all.

Their relationship might look like a father-daughter bond at first glance, but it’s clearly more complicated than that, which raises your suspicions. You’ve seen firsthand what Joel has done for her, and there must be more to their story. Such a strong connection doesn’t just spring up, especially with someone who isn’t your biological child.

This leads you to think: perhaps he lost a child before or shortly after the outbreak. That would explain it.

You are pulled from your thoughts when a boy suddenly appears next to you. It’s that boy—the one you saved from becoming a stalker’s dinner along with Maria and the others that day.

“Hello, I heard your name is Kat.”

“Hi there, little buddy. You heard right. What’s your name?”

“Ted.”

“Oh right, Ted. Nice to meet you. Do you need something?” You’re unsure how to engage with children, and he smiles sweetly at you. You glance around, half worried about saying the wrong thing, especially with his parents nowhere in sight.

“I made this for you,” he says, holding out a drawing he created.

“Oh, did you draw this?”

“Yeah!”

He shows you a picture of yourself with your dog. It's quirky and charming, making you smile. You wouldn't dare hurt his feelings. “That’s fantastic, Ted. Thank you.”

“Ted, where’s your mom?”

An older man with short white hair and a slight limp approaches you.

“At the farm, Grandpa.”

“Better head home to your brother,” the man says, and the boy nods, then heads out the door.

The man turns to you. “Hey, I’m Seth.” He extends his hand, and you shake it while still seated.

“Kat.”

“You saved my grandson that day. I wanted to thank you,” he says earnestly.

“Not a problem at all.”

“Do you see that bar over there?” he points across the street. “I work there. We've got some good drinks and a nice little gathering brewing. Want to join me for a drink?”

You find the offer odd.

You’ve never really gone out for a drink with anyone before. Seth chuckles softly at your hesitation. “I’m not hitting on you or anythin'. Just showin' my gratitude.”

“I never claimed otherwise,” you reply, finally pushing yourself up from the chair. “Alright, lead the way... Mr.?”

“Just call me Seth.”

“Okay, Seth.”

The bar exceeds your expectations in size, with chairs, tables, and shelves filled with bottles—the scene reminiscent of those movies you’ve seen or the books you’ve read. A musty, slightly sweet aroma fills the air, a blend of damp wood and something aromatic yet heavy, oddly comforting.

Seth steps behind the bar while you take in the surroundings, oblivious to how he’s watching you with a keen eye. “You look like you’ve never been to a bar before.”

Uh-oh.

You can’t admit that; it would be too embarrassing.

“No, of course not. This isn’t my first time,” you lie in an attempt to sound nonchalant.

“Alright then, what do you want?”

You raise your eyebrows, and he exhales with a knowing smile.

"What would you prefer to drink?"

“Well, I…” It’s been ages since you've had a drink, and you’re not sure how to approach this. William never let you drink, and your father surely wouldn’t approve either. But while you’ve been on the run, you stumbled across some bottles and tried a few here and there. As you scan the bottles, nothing has labels you can read.

Just as you’re pondering your choice, the bar door swings open, and someone pulls out a chair, taking a seat.

Perfect.

You can just get what that customer is having. I mean, copying someone else's order isn’t a big deal, right?

You glance over to see who just walked in and almost toppled off your chair when you realize it is Joel.

Great.

He sits at the barstool, surprised to see you, straightening his jacket while glancing your way and then at Seth.

What the hell?

To your surprise, Joel gives Seth his drink order with just a look, and Seth promptly turns to grab a bottle from the shelf. You glance at Joel, trying to figure out what he’s drinking, but Seth’s hand blocks your view. Without recognizing the drinks, making a guess feels risky; you don’t want to end up with something awful.

“Have you made up your mind yet?”

You watch Joel take a sip of his drink. “I’ll have what he’s having.”

Joel and Seth share a look, and you think you’ve made the right choice, but soon you’ll discover otherwise.

“It’s really your first time at the bar, isn’t it?” Seth asks, reaching for the same drink without even glancing at you.

Joel chuckles softly.

“No, it’s not!” you counter, but your insistence doesn’t hold up against Joel’s cocky expression.

You catch a glimpse of the label as Seth sets a glass in front of you. ‘M.W. Whiskey.’

Whiskey.

That whiskey you found in that old abandoned house a few years back wasn’t bad, but it definitely made you sick afterward. I mean, if Joel’s having a drink, you’re in too, right?

What’s the big deal?

You can feel Joel watching you as you lift your glass.

“Maybe this isn’t such a great idea,” he says, barely holding back a laugh. “It might hit you pretty hard.”

You roll your eyes, thinking, “Here we go,” and down the drink. At first, it’s nothing at all, like you’re sipping cologne, but then it kicks in—hot and fiery.

“It burns!” you shout, fanning your face like crazy. “Damn, it burns like hell!”

“Warned ya,” Joel laughs.

Seth hands you a glass of water. “Here, take this.”

“I don’t think you’re trying to thank me; you’re trying to kill me,” you retort as you stand up, still fanning yourself. Seth looks surprised, and Joel gets up to hand you the water.

“Drink this. You’ll feel better.”

You grab the glass and gulp it down in one go.

“Whoa, slow your roll, champ.” If the burning throat wasn’t bad enough, your head starts spinning and everything gets fuzzy. Just when you feel like you’re about to crash onto a barstool, a strong arm catches you. “Whoa, I’ve got you.”

“I-I’m dizzy,” you mumble, eyes shut tight, clinging to Joel’s arm to keep from falling over.

“What’s the—You just had a little bit. It was strong, but not enough to knock you out.”

“Oh really, Mr. Whiskey Expert?” you shoot back.

“Oh, no,” Seth says, making Joel look over. “I saw her taking pills after lunch; it’s probably some interaction with her meds.”

Joel glares at him. “Then why the hell did you bring her to the bar?”

“I just wanted to show my thanks,” he mutters.

“Well thanks a lot, Seth,” Joel grunts, picking you up since you’re wobbling. “This shit just keeps gettin' better and better.”

 

‘°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°TWO WRONGS, ONE RIGHT°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°’

 

Headache. 

A pounding ache. 

The kind that presses against your temples even as you pry your eyes open. 

But you do it anyway. 

The first thing you notice is a dark brown cushion with a soft mustard tint. Your face is turned toward it, almost touching the fabric, while one leg and an arm dangle over the edge of the couch. You turn your head to survey your surroundings. It's definitely a place you've never been before. The springs shift beneath your weight as you sit up, making you sway slightly. You blink and glance around, your hand instinctively reaching for your head, and as you smooth your hair back, you hear the creaking of the hardwood floor behind you. Someone's approaching. 

You turn your head. 

Joel. 

He’s dressed in a plaid shirt and jeans, and he looks...uneasy. 

"I... How? Where am I?" 

"At my house." 

"Yeah, I noticed that," you reply, meeting his gaze. "Did you change?" 

"Yeah." 

"Why?" 

Joel lets out a heavy sigh as he opens the refrigerator door. "'Cause of you."

"Excuse me? What the hell do you mean? Why? What happened?" 

"What happened? You threw up on me. That’s what happened." He takes a swig of his water, irritation evident in his tone. 

You widen your eyes, but you don't think he has the right to be mad at you. You stand up and face him. "This is also your fault." 

He laughs, shaking his head as he points at himself. "Me? Whatcha talkin' 'bout? I strolled into the bar for my good ol' whiskey, just like usual. You're the one who rode in and busted up my day."

"Do you have to drink something that strong in the middle of the day? Shouldn’t you be a bit healthier at your age? Maybe have some orange juice or somethin'." 

At that, his expression suddenly hardens, and his eyes darken. You swallow instinctively but don’t blink. “They all grow on the farm, they said that,” you explain softly. 

He steps closer, and you instinctively back away. "The fruit... it’s healthy... That’s why..." you stammer as he continues to advance. "I know because I’m anemic," you add. "There were times when I had to take iron pills and drink orange juice." 

Joel doesn’t respond; he simply stares deep into your eyes as if peering into your very soul.

Is he furious or... something else? 

It’s hard to tell.

"Vitamin C, you know," you whisper, your gaze lingering on his lips.

"Who are you, really?" 

"I... I'm Kat," you manage to say, almost slipping and revealing your true name. It’s difficult when he’s looking at you like that; you’re dangerously close to spilling everything you’ve kept hidden. 

His brown eyes seem almost magical. 

"You’re hidin' somethin', aren't you?"

You swallow again but maintain your composure. "I don’t know what you’re talking about." 

"Oh, I think you do. You know perfectly well." He leans in closer, and an unfamiliar feeling washes over you again. You’re so overwhelmed in that moment—trying to escape his probing gaze while also wrestling with the urge to kiss him. Yes, you want to experience something completely new with this old man. Being this close, you notice every line on his face, every trace of the years. Yes, he’s older, but undeniably handsome. Strange and absurd, yet the most captivating face you’ve ever seen. And the scent coming off him—clean laundry, soap, a hint of whiskey from earlier. 

"Oh shit." 

You both jump at Ellie’s voice and turn to look at her.

Only then do you realize your back is pressed against the wall. Joel steps back, his face shifting as he looks at her. "Hey, kiddo." 

"Am I interrupting something?" she quips, her eyebrows raised, a sarcastic glimmer in her eyes. 

Joel shakes his head, crossing his arms. 

You shake your head too. "I was just leaving anyway." 

"To your house?" Ellie asks as you head for the door, still feeling a bit woozy.

You glance at her.  "Apparently." 

"I heard the plumbing's sucks," she says, looking pointedly at Joel. 

He shrugs in response. 

"Zach said he’d come check it out," you mention as you walk out, avoiding eye contact. "Thanks for the hospitality." You mutter, slam the door a little harder than intended. 

Ellie shoots Joel a knowing look. "Dude." 

"You heard her. Zach said he'd check it out." He frowns, heading for the stairs. 

"That dork is incompetent, can’t do shit," Ellie mutters as he goes up.

"Don’t care, Ellie," he calls back, and she hear his door slam shut. 

Ellie grins. "Yeah, right." 

When you step outside, you notice it’s getting dark.

How long did you crash on Joel's couch, for fucks sake?

Zach says he’ll swing by tomorrow since the council is meeting soon. Maria, given that you are an eyewitness, really believes it would be beneficial for you to attend the council meeting.

You agree, though reluctantly.

After you share some info about stalkers—or just answer a bunch of questions—Zach walks you home. He’s a nice guy but honestly a bit too nice, which weirds you out because you’re just not used to it.

Joel’s on his porch, fiddling with a guitar that looks like it has seen better days. When he spots you both, he stares, but then returns to his strumming. Under the full moon and the dim yellow light spilling from his porch, the details of his face are striking. You can’t help but stare, and Zach’s voice begins to fade into the background as you give a slight nod.

"Guess I'll see you bright and early tomorrow morning." 

"Yeah, thanks,” you say, forcing a smile that you hope looks genuine.

Just then, Joel unknowingly yanks the guitar strings too hard, and they snap, hitting him in the arm.

He curse.

You both turn to look.

“Goodnight, Mr. Miller!” Zach waves. 

“Night, kid,” Joel replies, giving you a quick glance but not really locking eyes for some reason.

Not like he actually cared, though.

You pout a bit, and as Zach leaves, you can feel Joel’s gaze on you while you walk to your porch.

Trust your gut feelings, right?

As you open the door to step inside, you glance back at Joel's porch. He's turned away, but you catch him sneaking a look in your direction, and you smile before shutting the door. Leaning against the closed door, you can almost hear him muttering to himself, which makes you giggle.

As you check out your new home and bedroom, there’s a knock at your door.

What the—?

You’ve barely been inside for ten minutes.

Could it be Joel? But why would he come?

A bit of excitement builds up as you tread down the stairs, a million questions running through your mind.

You swing open the door and raise your eyebrows when you see Tommy.

You were just with him at the council meeting earlier.

Why is he here?

"Tommy?"

His expression tells you something’s off. 

"Kat, um... your dog."

Your stomach drops. "What happened?"

Joel jumps up when he spots his brother standing on your porch, but you’re too focused on Tommy. 

"Your dog escaped from the kennel. I ain't got no clue how. He dug a hole but--."

"Shit." 

"Does he do that a lot?"

"Yeah, he’s a pro at digging. But why now? He was in a good mood this morning."

"Don’t know, sorry." 

"He must be around here somewhere." 

"That's exactly why I'm here. Someone saw him bustin' out just as the eastbound patrol was ridin' back to town. While them doors were swingin' wide, he must've slipped right on out."

Your heart starts racing. "So he’s loose?"

Tommy nods. "Pretty much."

You nod, slam the door, and walk outside, looking straight at Tommy. "Give me my stuff now." 

"It’s not smart to go out at this time—" 

"I don’t fuckin' care! He’s my dog. I trusted you guys to keep him safe, and look what happened?" 

"Alright, alright. Just take a breather. I’ll talk to Maria and see if we can rustle up a few folks to ride along with ya." He taps your shoulder gently.

You take a deep breath and glance over at Joel as you make your way into town with Tommy. He must have heard everything, but he just keeps strumming away on that guitar or whatever he’s working on.

Right, why would he even care about you or your dog?

 

‘°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°TWO WRONGS, ONE RIGHT°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°’

 

Tommy and Maria are returning your bag and guns, but almost no one is willing to join you.

Just as you’re slinging your bag over your shoulder, Zach and Jessie show up.

You check your gun magazines while noticing Zach’s father is arguing with Tommy in the distance. You could go on your own; you don’t really need anyone else. As Stables prepares one of the horses for you, you told Maria that you could go on your own, but she interjects, insisting that she can’t allow this—not just for you, but for anyone. You’re grateful that William taught you how to ride without your dad’s help; otherwise, you’d be in real trouble right now. You grab the reins and mount your horse. Just as you glance at the horse next to you, you witness Zach and Jessie bickering.

"I can go solo, really," you tell Maria once more.

She gives you a knowing look. "Rules apply to everyone."

"I don’t want anyone getting hurt because of me."

"It’s their choice. Speaking of choices, have you guys decided yet? I can send only one of you," she says, glancing at them.

Without hesitation, Zach shoves Jessie aside and approaches the horse. "I’m going," he declares.

But before Zach can act, someone nudges him aside. In a flash, he stashes his things into the saddlebag and leaps onto the horse.

Everyone gasps in disbelief.

It’s Joel.

"Stay put, kiddo, 'less you wanna give your dad a heart attack."

Tommy and Maria exchange glances. You can’t help but gape at Joel is now on the horse next to you, looking quite cocky with his confident demeanor. He motions for you to get moving. "Let’s hit the road, stalker hunter."

When you glance back at Tommy and Maria, they smile warmly at you or more than that... relieved. "Hope you find your dog."

"Be safe out there."

Joel nudges his horse forward and turns to you. "You plannin' to just stand there all night?"

You roll your eyes and kick your horse into gear. "Cocky much?" you tease, passing him.

 Joel matches your pace. "Look who’s talkin'."

And so, a strange yet intriguing journey begins as you and Joel ride out together past Jackson’s giant wooden walls and into the night.

 

‘°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°TWO WRONGS, ONE RIGHT°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°’

 

Chapter 3: The Man With a Beautiful Smile

Curious glances, murmurs, eyes scanning him from head to toe, laughter, and strange looks.

Joel can vividly recall the day he first set foot in Jackson—he was met with the same stares and murmurs.

Back then, he barely paid attention to anyone or anything around him. But now, it’s hard to look away as he cradles this mysterious girl in his arms, those familiar eyes are on him once more. Some locals know him now, and maybe that's why they seem so intrigued and taken aback.

After all, they've never seen him with a woman before.

The truth is, things aren't always what they seem. People are so easily misunderstood and misjudged; it’s always been that way. Even if cordyceps were to leave only a handful of people on Earth, this tendency would probably remain unchanged.

Humanity is incorrigible.

Joel doesn’t typically dwell on these notions though; he never has. Still, he doesn’t blame the townspeople. This girl has only been in town for two days, and this is the second time he’s carried her.

It’s an intriguing situation for them.

The harsh reality of the dangerous world outside makes these townsfolk more vigilant about such things, and Joel has overheard plenty during his stay.

Now that the girl has become the talk of the town, Joel feels he’s caught in the crossfire, carrying her through the streets.

Like the god-damn star of a god-damn movie.

As he makes his way to the clinic, a flurry of thoughts runs through his head.

Again.

Why is he doing this?

Why not just leave her at the bar?

Why help?

There are countless questions, yet no answers. He goes through the motions because he feels he must, though deep down, he’s also ignoring a flicker of worry. That’s one of Joel’s talents—putting aside his feelings and keeping them at bay.

He managed to break through some of that armor with Ellie, but he remains firmly rooted in his comfort zone, relishing the safety of his own cave. That’s how it once was for him.

But now, things have changed.

Things have changed fast.

Just a day ago, the doctor noticed Joel carrying this girl, and now he sees him with her again. Unable to resist a bit of teasing, he remarks,  “You’ve never set foot in the clinic, yet here you are bringing this girl in for a second time. Looks like you're turning into her hero or something."

The doctor got a glare in return for his joke, but he should count himself lucky. As a doctor, he’s fortunate not to have received a harsher reprimand from Joel.

He shuts his eyes briefly to gather himself. He despises the clinic but somehow finds himself there again, and it’s all because of this damn girl. Moments later, as the doctor examines her and says he’ll be right back, Joel crosses his arms and glances over his shoulder at the girl, noticing her muttering something vague.

Intrigued, he moves closer, captivated by her tone.

Her eyes are closed, her eyebrows furrowed, and her long eyelashes are quivering.

And then there are her lips.

Without realizing it, Joel finds himself kneeling beside the gurney, his curiosity piqued, his logic on the floor, his pride slipping away, and his heart beating faster than normal.

At that moment, the girl’s eyes flutter open, catching him off guard. She looks dazed and, with a trembling hand, grabs Joel's jacket, pulling him closer.

Her body shakes, and something completely unexpected happens.

She throws up on him.

Joel is taken aback—it’s a reaction he never saw coming. He looks down, glancing at his jacket and the shirt beneath, noticing the weird dampness and the pungent odor...

A wave of pure anger surges within him, overriding all other emotions.

He jumps to his feet; disgusted, annoyed.

Just then, the doctor enters, first eyeing the girl and then Joel, whose expression is a mix of confusion and frustration. The doctor fights to stifle a laugh but holds back, wary of Joel’s likely reaction. "I was going to suggest we make her throw up," he announces, placing the medicine back on the table. “Since she did, she should be fine now; you can take her,” he stammers, casting a timid glance at Joel's ruined jacket and shirt before hurrying out of triage, likely thankful to be out of the hot seat.

Fueled by anger, Joel is ready to storm out of triage himself.

To hell with the helping hands.

This girl has overstepped her boundaries, he thinks.

But just as he’s about to pull back the curtain and leave, he hears something.

“Daddy, forgive me.”

He stops, certain the words came from her.

Turning back to her, he sees her sweaty face and realizes only her lips are moving. “I won’t do it again… Please… don’t hurt me.” The desperation in her voice touches something deep inside Joel, echoing words he hasn’t heard in ages. It’s a memory that takes a few seconds to crystallize—a voice from the past.

Tommy.

That moment emerges from the dusty corners of his memory, much like a long-forgotten bookshelf. It had been some time since he thought about those days. Occasionally, in an effort to bring a smile to Ellie’s face, he recalls his father, determined to be everything he wasn’t, much like he tried to do with Sarah.

She had a special, natural way of lightening his burdens, but sadly, the pain of her loss only deepened his past suffering, overshadowing everything else.

It was all too much to bear—so overwhelming that it drove him to despair.

The mark on his temple will remain until his last breath as a constant reminder.

And now, here’s this girl.

Murmuring words that stir up memories of all he has endured.

Just like that.

Who is she?

Why is she doing this?

And Joel himself.

Why can’t he just turn his back on this stranger and walk away?

Why does he act like a fucking gentleman when deep down he knows he isn’t?

Just a few days ago, he didn't even know she existed, and he was just fine.

So why has she come into his life and stirred up trouble?

Why does it have to be him?

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he catches the doctor watching him from a distance out of the corner of his eye. He must look like a goddamn statue standing there. Dismissing the doctor’s gaze and the swirling questions in his mind, he focuses solely on what he wants to do.

He lifts her up once more and strides out of the clinic.

Carrying her into his house now—when he could’ve easily left her behind and he had every reason to do that—so he could confront her about throwing up on him.

Yeah, that really was the reason.

Definitely not because he cares about her or anything like that.

Nope, not at all.

The sound of whistling snaps Joel back to the present, though he can’t tell how long he’d been lost in thought.

You’re not far from Jackson, just two or three hours at most, mainly winding around to search for any trail.

The ride has been quiet, and while he was wrapped up in his musings, you had tracked down Taxi and decided to whistle for him, as you always do. But each whistle annoys Joel, and he turns his horse toward you.

"What are you doing?" he barks, irritation lacing his voice.

You meet his tone with a pointed look. "Looking for my dog, apparently," you reply.

Isn't that why you find yourself in the dark woods at this hour?

"Is your dog smart enough to recognize your whistle?" he shoots back.

"Smarter than most people,” you retort.

"You must have known him for a long time."

Turning your head, you remind yourself it’s okay to be honest; after all, he’s never seen you or Taxi before. "Yeah, I saved him when he was a puppy."

Joel looks ahead, and a sense of curiosity stirs within you; it’s been there since you hit the road, but you just now found the chance to ask. "Alright, my turn. You’re from Texas, right?"

He gives a slight nod. "Austin. What 'bout you? You don't seem like you're from the South."

You shake your head. "Pass. I said it's my turn. How’d you get that scar on your face? Did it hurt? I bet it did. But it can’t be from a knife; maybe it's a bullet wound?" Joel glances away. That scar has probably been with him for years—it’s definitely not new.

"Pass. Why'd you name your dog Taxi?" he counters.

You shrug. "Pass. Since you’re not answering, I won’t either."

"Fair enough," he mutters.

Frustrated, you let out another whistle.

“Stop it!” he scolds.

“You’re right, whistling’s not enough,” you say, covering your mouth with both hands and shouting into the woods at the top of your lungs, “Taxi! Taxi! Where are you? C'mon buddy!”

Joel’s anger rises. “I said stop it, damn it!” he yells again, but you’re too focused on your goal to argue with him: you need to find Taxi as quickly as possible.

Then, your flashlight glints off something on the ground, and without thinking, you jump off the horse. It’s your jacket—the one you took off before receiving the new clothes that Maria traded for you in Jackson. It's torn and dirtier, messier than you remember. "What the hell?"

Joel watches you, still mounted.

You hold up your jacket, confused. "This is mine. How did it end up here? I took it off at your brother's place."

Joel narrows his eyes and glances around, equally puzzled.

A thought strikes you: your scent is on your jacket, and that might be why Taxi bolted.

"Someone did this. But why?"

"Are ya sayin' somebody did this on purpose to let your dog bust outta Jackson's walls?"

“What else could it be?" You roll your eyes, scanning the dirt for clues.

"You’ve only bin' en town just two days. If anyone should be angry with you, it’d be me. But I wouldn’t do somethin' like that."

"Guess there are worse people than you, Joel Miller," you tease, bending down to examine the trail.

"Is this how ya usually treat those who come help ya in the dead o' night out in the woods?" he says, when you still looking for a dog's paw print among the other tracks on the ground.

"I'm not so sure you're really here to help," you mutter to yourself.

Silence lingers in the air, and you can only guess at Joel's surprise since you don't look at him. Thinking a shadow looks like a paw print, you get up and call out into the dark woods again just to make sure, "Taxi!"

Just behind you, Joel swears under his breath, and you hear the thud of his boots hitting the ground. Without glancing back, you take a deep breath, preparing to shout again, when suddenly, his large hand clamps over your mouth. Your eyes widen as the back of your head connects with his chest, but your training kicks in; the shock lasts only a moment. You lunge to seize his arm with both hands, but he's just as quick, if not quicker. He’s a man, broad in stature, and you can feel the weight of his hand—long-fingered and chubby-palmed—covering almost half of your face.

Strangely, you find a flicker of comfort in his touch, yet your instincts scream for resistance. The warmth of his breath against your ear, combined with the pressure of his palm, makes you freeze. "I said stop it." The command in his voice grates on your nerves, igniting your desire to struggle. You slam your elbow into his stomach, catching him off guard.

Joel groans as the air leaves him.

It’s a solid hit, but he quickly regains his composure, grabbing your elbow and spinning you around. With surprising strength, he secures both of your arms behind your back and presses you against a nearby tree, his masculine power evident in the way he holds you. You squirm against the force of his grip, unsettled by being overpowered, yet a part of you hesitates to retaliate again, especially with the way he’s looking at you.

Motherfucker.

How is it possible for him to look so appealing even when he's seething with anger?

The wrinkles when he frowns, the fire in his eyes, the way the artery in his neck stands out as his muscles tense, and the way a piece of his hair, a small curl, falls across his forehead as he leans toward you—it must not have survived the jolt of your struggles—A beautiful detail.

Taking your breath away.

Yes, it's the last thing you need to feel right now, but here you are.

Fucking perfect.

"I understand ya're worried about your dog, but trust me, if ya keep shoutin' like that, it won't be him we end up finding, but rather a heap of trouble."

You know exactly what he's referring to—raiders, hunters, and worse. You've faced them all at some point, throughout the years, and you’re well aware of their capabilities and limits.

Honestly, you'd take your chances with the infected over them any day.

You can’t really tell if it’s because he sees the calm vibe on your face, or if he realizes he’s gotten a bit too close, dangerously close—your breasts brushing against chest, barely a millisecond—but he releases you and steps back.

Your eyes are the last part of you to break contact.

Joel clears his throat and points ahead. "There's a checkpoint down the road; we should stay there 'til it gets light."

"You do that," you reply stubbornly. "I'm going to keep searching in circles at this point."

He lets out a frustrated sigh. "It'll be easier to search in the mornin'—"

"I'm not afraid of the dark," you interrupt, inserting bullets into your revolver one by one from your pocket.

"Ain't talkin' 'bout the dark," he replies pointedly, watching you as you reload.

"Okay, I'm not afraid of that either. I can handle myself just as I've always done till now." You say, your thumb poised just above it, ready to pull. “Look, I'm not your kid. I don’t need you stressing over me. I never asked you to come, anyway."

He places his hands on his hips, a troubled look crossing his face—maybe it’s annoyance? Hurt? He nods and says coldly, "Fine," but his voice breaks as he turns toward his horse.

"Fine," you reply, mirroring his icy tone, feeling a bit dejected.

Before getting on his horse, Joel glances back at you. "At least haul your horse along with you."

"No need," you say, retrieving your rifle and checking its magazine.

He opens his mouth to respond but hisses instead, hesitating before he decides to grab your horse's reins with even more coldness and mounts his own.

You both turn away and head off in different directions.

As you navigate through the woods, you hope to find another trail while Joel takes the route toward the checkpoint.

After a moment, you glance back, only to see him and the two horses moving away.

He doesn’t look back at you, but you convince yourself that it doesn’t matter, pretending you don’t care.

 

‘°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°TWO WRONGS, ONE RIGHT°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°’

 

As you walk alone through the woods, a sudden pang of regret washes over you. You realize how much you'd prefer to see Joel’s grumpy face rather than face his absence. But when it comes to relationships, you feel completely inexperienced. Your knowledge is limited to what you've read in books and seen in movies, and most of the relationships you've observed belonged to strangers who passed through your life. This has always been the case; it feels like you were born not as a baby but as an experiment. Friends, lovers, siblings, and neighbors—none of them truly existed, and your parents were never part of your life.

If it hadn't been for William, you could have easily given in to loneliness long ago, becoming just a hollow shell of your former self. You need him now more than ever, to guide you, offer direction, give you advice, and most importantly, to listen. Looking back on the times you hated yourelf for being unfair with him during your dumbass teenage years. It has been some time since you could visit your intended meeting spot due to the hunters lurking nearby.

And your positive thoughts are starting to dwindle.

Maybe you’ll head there once you find Taxi.

After a few laps, you find the rest of your belongings—first your pants, then your blouse. But Taxi is still nowhere to be found, and as you wander around wondering where he could be, you notice that the day is beginning to dawn. You're tired and need sleep, but you have to keep going. You're used to situations like this, but sleeplessness is still the only thing that's hard for you. You want to kick yourself because of your stubbornness and big mouth.

Joel was right.

You’ve been searching for hours—what’s the point?

There’s nothing—no trace, no sign.

As you wonder what he’s doing, you feel the urge to pee. You go behind a tree and unzip your pants, squatting down and looking around. The bite mark on your inner thigh bothers you more than being caught with your pants down, as always. Pulling up your underwear, feeling relieved, you hear a dog barking, coming from the west. You quickly pull up your pants, zip them, sling your rifle over your shoulder, and without thinking, take a few steps toward the sound.

Another bark.

The deep barking sound was muffled by the trees in the distance, but you could swear it was a dog.

Or maybe you want to find him so badly that you think it's his barking, but you're not sure. Your tired, emotions are overwhelming you, so you can't think strategically, and when you come out of the forest, you run without thinking toward the barking, which is still continuing and getting louder. Your rifle is swinging behind your shoulder, and you're struggling to keep it from falling.

Your instincts are screaming at you not to do it, think about it first, but thist time, you chose to ignore them, which is a huge mistake. 

You estimate you’ve run about a mile when other sounds reach your ears, and you suddenly change direction, ducking behind a building that resembles a nearby warehouse and stopping to catch your breath. Leaning against the wall of the building, out of breath, you think about what to do. A loud growl suddenly comes from somewhere, and a dog that you are sure is not Taxi jumps on you and knocks you to the ground. As you struggle, you hear the sounds of men rushing toward you fill the air, the barking ringing in your ears and drowning out your thoughts.

As your mind races to find the quickest way out of this predicament, you let out a desperate scream while struggling to reach for the combat knife tucked in your pocket with one hand. Meanwhile, you’re desperately keeping the snarling dog’s teeth at bay with the other. “Fuck! Stop! I don’t want to hurt you, you stupid dog!”

As you brace your arm under its jaw, you use all your strength to clamp its mouth shut, hoping to avoid a painful bite. And when about to pull the knife and swing it at it, a whistle is heard, and the dog stops immediately. To figure out what’s going on, you quickly roll over, get into a defensive position without standing up, and check out your surroundings.

As you move, your hair falls in front of you, and the first thing you notice are two tall guys—one's a bit skinnier than the other. One of them tosses a piece of meat to a dog, which eagerly gobbles it up, while the other steps squarely on the rifle you dropped during the struggle. The second man stares at you with a blank expression, gun aimed directly at you.

"Damn it! It's her!" he exclaims as he recognizes you, his eyes wide with recognition.

"Who? That girl?" the other asks, glancing your way.

In that moment, it dawns on you that they are the hunters from before—the ones who stole everything from you and tried to make things even worse.

You need to find a way out, and fast.

Scanning your surroundings, you notice three houses down the street to your right and a narrow path leading into the forest on your left. The forest might be your best bet; you could easily slip away among the trees. The dog isn’t a major concern—it seems starving and could easily be distracted with the dog food which you have in your bag.

As one of the men moves closer, you get to your feet, gripping your knife defensively. But before you can react, the other man snatches up your rifle and points it at you. A knife won’t do you any good against two armed men. Although you can draw your revolver quicker than he can fire that rifle, it’s still a gamble. The other man is holding a Baretta, similar to the ones used by Fedra, and he could likely take you out before you even manage to reach for your weapon.

This isn't good.

Just then, two more men show up, and one of them rushes toward you the moment he sees you. "You bitch!" he shouts as he grabs your hand—where the knife is—and yanks it toward him, using all his strength to force you to let go. The pain causes you to drop the knife, and in the next instant, he strikes you so hard that you find yourself back on the ground.

“Calm down, man,” says one of them, stopping him from kicking you. At that moment, you wipe the warm blood flowing from the corner of your lip with your hand and glare at him threateningly. He glares at you while the two of them try to keep him from lunging at you. “Don't kill her yet.”

“Did you forget that this fuckin' slut blew Alex's damn head clean off?" he barks at them. "The others?" he turns to you then. "She’s taken five of our men!” he shouts at you, frenzied, but you stand your ground. 

Never let them see your fear, you remind yourself.

One hand's ready to grab your gun, while the other two are holding you tight by the arms, and the other two are behind him. If they weren't pointing their guns at you, you'd be able to escape, but not like this. 

The angry guy, probably their leader or something, steps closer, looking a bit more chill now, grabs your hair, and yanks. “Let's teach this tough bitch a lesson she won't forget.”

As you look into his eyes, you can see the anger and something fucked-up swirling in there. You try hard not to show your fear, but it's hard.

They haul you into the building, and you scream, but they just laugh like it’s a sick joke.

You’ve got to come up with some solid plans to get out of this mess—and you need to do it fast.

 

‘°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°TWO WRONGS, ONE RIGHT°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°’

 

Joel is feeling a bit uneasy as he stares out the window at the woods from the checkpoint.

He’s mad.

Mad at you, but even more at himself. He hates worrying about you but can’t help it.

Why didn’t he just drag you here?

What were you doing in the woods all night?

Why do you have to be so god-damn stubborn?

He came all this way but hasn’t slept a wink, just thinking about you.

“Stupid, stubborn little shit,” he grumbles, throwing his backpack over his shoulder. “This goddamn girl’s a real pain in the ass," he mutters, fiddling with his jacket as he heads out. He grabs one of the horses and rides into the forest. It feels like he’s going through the same struggle he had with Ellie, but this is different. Back then, he didn’t have a choice. Now, he’s here of his own free will.

But why?

He’s feeling a bit... lost.

Initially, he thought talking to you would help him find some answers, and since he felt grateful for your dog, he wanted to lend a hand—though he can't explain that to you.

But then you threw some harsh words his way, and that messed him up. Just one word from you and he's ended up like this.

She's just an ordinary girl, so why does everything seem to affect him so deeply?

Wound him like this.

That’s something he just can’t wrap his head around.

While he’s riding deeper in the woods, he finds himself hesitating to call your name.

It’s just a name, but for some reason, it feels like a lot.

In an instant, he’s back in middle school, having a crush on a girl a grade above him. He couldn’t even call her name back then; his shyness held him back. Even now, he can’t remember her name, but the struggle is crystal clear. Calling out to her felt like it would either make her laugh at him or get her annoyed. Finally, when he worked up the guts to do it, he saw that jerk next to her and instantly regretted it. And after high school, when he married Sarah’s mom, he thought he’d found true love, but that ended up being a mistake too.

He’s just never had any luck with love, not even with Tess.

But that thing was totally different anyway.

As he reflects on these thoughts, a shiver runs down his spine. “No, this girl is young enough to be your daughter,” a voice within him nudges.

But he pushes it aside.

He detests that notion.

He understands—deep down, he really does—that the feeling he has now is different; it's not exactly the same. As a father, he’s familiar with it, and it holds a cherished spot in his heart—one that’s always been reserved for Ellie and Sarah.

But this girl, she nudges into another part of his heart. Everything he feels for her belongs there.

After wandering for some time without finding any trace of her, frustration begins to rise within him. Concerned thoughts flit through his mind, only to be cut short by the sudden echo of a gunshot in the distance. “What? I ain't s'posed to fret 'bout her? She can handle her own just fine? My ass,” he mutters to himself, picking up his pace.

 

‘°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°TWO WRONGS, ONE RIGHT°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°’

 

“Let go off me! I said let go, you motherfuckers!” you yell as they drag you inside. One of them pins you down while another yanks your backpack off and tosses it away. Then, other one digs through your stuff, pulls out all your weapons, and lays them on the desk.

The leader forces you to sit on the edge of the desk while another holds your arms. He then reaches for the last remaining weapon—a knife—and takes it into his hand.

As the sharp metal clangs, you struggle to break free while also testing the grip of the man holding you. As long as your legs aren't tied, there's hope, and you start making a plan in your head. The weapons are just sitting there on the desk, and the safety on the gun in the other guy's waistband is off, which gives you a slight edge. The guy holding you has his gun ready to go at any second, which could actually work in your favor. The shotgun being held by the dude behind their leader is the biggest threat, but if you can grab the gun from the guy on your left at just the right moment, you might have a shot at taking him out. Once you get behind the desk, you should be able to deal with the other guy too.

You flinch as the man presses the knife against your skin, dragging it along your cheek.

“Now... let's see what else she's packing."

"Yeah."

"Do it."

Bastards.

He's running your own knife over you.

As he grabs the collar of your shirt and pulls it, cutting one of the buttons with the knife and unbuttoning your shirt, you swallow when you notice something worse in his eyes.

No way, not this again. You’ve dealt with this before.

That motherfucker, Alex.

You took him down when he tried to pull the same stunt, but now it’s worse.

There are way more of them.

You hold your breath as the guy slides the knife down your T-shirt. Your shirt is open now, but his attention is elsewhere. And then the knife stops exactly where you feared it would, at the zipper of your pants. The guy has this wild look in his eye, like a hungry wolf, and he smirks at you. “What you got down there, doll-face?”

You look at him with disgust and menace. “I wouldn't do that if I were you.”

He gazes at the others, a mix of shock and annoyance in his expression, before suddenly slapping you across the face. The force of the blow sends your hair flying into your eyes.

“Shut your mouth! You! Pull down her pants and hold her legs,” he says to the very person you wanted, the one with the shotgun. Because, just as you predicted, he puts the shotgun down to take off your pants.

The others laugh viciously as he does that.

"Yeah!"

“Show the bitch!”

“Ruin her!”

But you have to ignore them because you know very well that when he sees the bite mark on your thigh, what he wants isn't to fuck you—it's to kill you.

This fear, which every woman in this situation would feel, hits you a bit differently. You’re unsure whether to be scared of them seeing the bite mark on your thigh or your sex.

What’s really tough is that you’ve already gone through this, and now it’s happening all over again. 

Yeah, it happened once, and you got through it.

You handled it just fine.

You can totally do it again.

Don’t let fear take over; just pull yourself together.

Think, think, think.

In that very moment, something occurs that fills you with courage. It’s precisely what you’ve been looking for.

The leader toss the knife to the other side of the desk, grinning at you while he start to unbuckle his belt.

Gross yet dumb move.

Some people might freak out with fear—sure, that's a totally understandable reaction—but you’re not about to give in.

At that moment, you start to make your plan while the guy tugging at your pants is laughing, and soon the others join in too. Their insults and laughter bounce around in your head, only pushing you to stay strong. You promise yourself you'll get back at them when the time is right.

It’s infuriating that they’re so focused on your legs, but that just makes you more determined. Without thinking, you squeeze your legs together—not just to stall for time, but to pull the guy even closer.

A little more.

As you mentally review your plan a few more times, the man holds you suddenly grabs you by the collar and shakes you violently, the leader forcing your legs apart.

You find it impossible to resist his overpowering strength, but it's okay.

And at that moment, everything goes exactly as you predicted.

As soon as the leaders' pants fall to his ankles, he grabs your thighs and sees the bite mark.

“The fuck?”

The people next to him, along with the others, are already eyeing your legs with curiosity, and now their gaze has become even more focused. “This bitch is infected!”

“How?”

“You idiots! How didn't you notice?” he shouts.

This is the moment you've been waiting for, the chaos you need.

"But this bite looks different man, I swear! Just look at it!" 

Ah, clever one, indeed. 

It only adds to the chaos as you prepare to make your move. 

You took a deep breath and… 

Everything unfolds in an instant.

The guy holding your legs is so stunned that he drops you, and you seize the chance to kick the leader -who’s checking out the bite mark- on his jaw. It's hard, effective, enough to push him down but not enough to take him out completely, just to keep him on the ground for a bit.

Then you lunge toward the knife, grab it, and quickly elbow the nearest man—the one whose gun you had previously planned to disarm—and slit his throat in one swift motion. Just before you somersault over the desk, you grab the other man's gun from his waist and manage to shoot the man held your legs in the head.

Three are out.

Two left.

And one of the other two has already drawn his gun and fired. The other guy is disarmed, so he’s not your target. The other is the one you should focus on.

As you think about how to move toward him from the edge of the table, he shouts, “I'll kill you, you goddamn bitch!”

“You can't escape! You're gonna die!”

The voices are coming from different spots, so the other one isn't near him but is probably hiding behind something. You need to take down the armed one before the other finds a gun. As you sneak up on him, another shot is fired, and you freeze. “Fucking bitch! You're dead now, did you hear me?”

You couldn't help but grin a little as you noticed his voice trembling with nervousness, and he just couldn't get a clear shot at you.

And at that moment, another shot is fired—not from a gun, but from a rifle.

“Garry! Damn it!” the other one shouts.

When you look again, you see the man lying on the ground, shot in the head. The other one is staring outside, looking at the person who shot his friend, unaware of you. And the stupid bastard, still unable to find a gun, turns around to run away, but another gunshot rings out, and he collapses to the ground. In that instant, a wave of panic washes over you as Joel steps through the warehouse door, rifle in hand. You're only in your underwear, but that's not the only thing you're worried about.

You quickly ducked down behind the desk. 

“Kat!” he yells, a mix of anger and worry in his voice. 

“I’m right here!” you call out from your spot behind the desk. 

Joel looks at you, his eyes wide for a second, then he rolls them and takes a deep breath. As he approaches, casting a quick look at the men on the floor, you call out, “Hold on!” 

Joel obeys. 

“Don’t come any closer!”

"Are you—"

Instead of answering, you choose to show him. You lock your legs together and stand up, placing your palm over the mark. Joel stares at you in disbelief, a pang of anguish hits his heart, and he gasps for air as he lowers his rifle.

“Could you toss me my pants?” you ask shyly, unaware of his state.

“Did they...?” His voice cracked.

“No, they didn’t do anything. They were going to, but I stopped them. Now, can you please hand me my pants?”

Joel takes a deep breath, doing his best to hide the fact that he’s teetering on the edge of a panic attack. His knees feel weak, and his heart pounds in his ears. He picks up your pants from the floor and tosses it to you without getting close. You gesture for him to turn around. “Excuse me, Joel?”

Still bewildered by the situation, he nods and turns his back to you. At that moment, a crackle comes from the radio clipped to his pants.

“Joel... This is Jackson... Do you copy?”

It’s Tommy’s voice. Joel picks up the radio and says, “Jackson, I hear you, copy,” but when the crackling keeps going, he heads outside.

You’re relieved; it makes putting on your pants a bit easier this way. As Joel continues to fiddle with the radio, the man on the floor stirs and attempts to sit up. You grab your gun from the table and point it at him.

When he notices you, he grins with his blood-stained jaw. “Huh! Would you look at that! Are you going to kill me now, you bitch?”  

You give him a relaxed smile.

"What do you think, asshole?"

The moment Joel spots you and realizes what's happening, he shoves the radio into his pocket, pulls out his revolver, and rushes over.

“Joel, no! This son of a bitch is mine!” you say, glanced quickly at him and then turned back to the guy.

Joel looks at you for a few seconds and lowers his gun.

As you draw back the hammer on the revolver, it lets out a quiet click while the cylinder rotates, and the guy shoots you a menacing glare. “Go on, kill me. You'll be dead soon anyway-” he says, and you cut him off by shooting him. The bullet goes into his head with a loud bang that makes your ears ring and kills him instantly. Blood splatters out of his head as he falls over backwards, and you shake your hand slightly to alleviate the mild pain caused by the recoil.

As you look at Joel, a strange yet relieved expression crosses his face. He quickly diverts his gaze, gathers his belongings, and you both leave that cursed place behind.

Did he suspect what the guy you shot had just said?

Joel follows you, muttering, “Damn hunters. Why did they have to come close to Jackson?”

“Well, they won’t be coming back for a while. I’ve dealt with a few of them before,” you reply.

He raises his eyebrows in surprise. “You dealt with them?” 

“Yes, you might be surprised at how many I’ve taken down.” 

“If you hadn't been so darn stubborn about wandering into that god-damn woods, none of this would’ve happened to you, you know?” 

“I had it all under control,” you respond defensively. 

“Yeah, sure. What would have happened if I hadn't taken care of the others?” he counters.

“I was handling it just fine,” you insist, pursing your lips.

Without warning, he reaches out and grabs your chin, his eyes focused. "Is this really how you're dealin' with things?" He takes a cloth from his bag, gently holding your chin as he presses the cloth against your skin, wipes the blood trickling from the corner of your lip. “You ever give anyone else this much grief?”

A smile creeps onto your face. “Nope, just you, Joel Miller.”

He gazes into your eyes, his thumb tracing the dimple on your cheek. “How can you still smile after everything that just happened?” 

“Because I’m over the crying part now,” you say softly.

“Yeah, I figured,” he says in that smooth, velvety voice of his, stirring a strange but beautiful warmth inside you.

After Joel wipes the blood from your lip, he strides back to his horse and calls you over. “We should head back now.”

“Are you kidding? I still haven’t found Taxi."

“Oh, right, I forgot to mention. Tommy said they found him.”

“Really?” You grin happily.

“The patrol that followed us found him out on the road."

You place a hand over your heart. “Thank God. Let’s go right away,” you say, walking toward the horse, but Joel reaches out to stop you.

You turn to him, raising your eyebrows. “What now?”

“There’s somewhere I need to stop first.”

You narrow your eyes, smiling in disbelief. “You jerk! I knew you didn’t come to help just for me.”

He shrugs in response, smirking. “Sue me.”

Together, you and Joel retrieve your horse from the checkpoint and set off toward the music shop he had mentioned, which isn’t too far away. During the ride, he shares his plans for making Ellie a guitar for her upcoming birthday. You can’t help but be envious of her, as Joel proves to be such a wonderful father, making you reflect on how different he is from your own crappy dad. Joel’s expression shifts to shock when he spots a couple of stalkers lingering in the shop, clearly never having encountered one before.

“Jesus Christ, how much worse can this get?” he exclaims.

"They're about as bad as I said, huh?" 

"Worse," he replies, picking up an intact guitar and settling into a chair. "Clickers, bloaters, stalkers—what’s next?" he grumbles as he starts removing the strings. 

“Spores…” you mumble. 

He freezes, turning to you in surprise. 

"Don't you know? I haven’t seen them myself, but I’ve heard them talking about it on the radio." 

Joel pauses, his curiosity piqued. "What radio?" 

You reach into your bag, pulling out the radio you’d found in a car just after SLC. "I thought it was from Fedra, but it isn’t. An Idaho unit reported what went down at a hospital in Seattle. They said, 'It’s in the air.' The fungus spreads spores." 

"That's impossible.  I ain't ever heard of that before," he says, shaking his head. 

“You ever hear about stalkers before you met me?” 

A brief moment of silence hangs in the air before Joel glances down at the guitar resting on his lap. "Why were you listening to the radio? Was that your unit?" 

"No, I don’t have a unit," you reply, avoiding his gaze. 

"Everyone's got some kinda affiliation. I reckon you hail from the QZ. Your shootin' and scrappin' style—they sure yell Fedra training, but I can see it’s more than just regular learnin'. It’s top notch."

You look at him, surprised. How could he know that? 

"I been in the QZ as well. Boston, y'know? What 'bout you?" He speaks as if he can read your thoughts. 

“You're asking a lot of questions,” you say, twirling a strand of hair around your finger as he yanks all the strings from the guitar one by one, carefully.

“So? You gonna answer me or what?” He asks, his tone soft yet demanding. 

Well. 

His sudden openness makes you want to reciprocate, but your story isn't something you share easily. "Is Ellie from Boston, too? She mentioned she was from the QZ." 

"'S right," he replies. "Aren’t you gonna tell me which QZ you're from?" 

"Pittsburgh," you answer. 

He squints a bit as he gets up. "Well, that sure clears up a heap 'bout your shootin’. Show me your grip," he says, eyeing the revolver at your hip. You didn’t expect this; you thought he’d keep grilling you, but he doesn’t.

You relax, taking out your revolver and displaying it to him. 

He reaches out, firmly demanding your gun, and you hand it over. He weighs it in his large hand. "Model 29, 12-inch, .44 mag—might be hefty, but boy, it packs a punch. That recoil's a critter, but you can't argue with its power."

“Yep, I once took out a Clicker with a single shot. He's a beast." you say proudly. 

"No kidding," he laughs. “But ‘he’? You refer to your gun as ‘he’?” 

“Yeah, I named him ‘Dirty Harry.’ You know, after Clint Eastwood’s character. He's my favorite actor by the way.” 

A strange look crosses Joel's face, almost making you laugh. "Wait, I was just a kid when those movies came out. How'd ya know that?"

Because I had a lot of free time living in that damn hospital, you think. "Let’s just say Fedra kept me stocked with movies and books." 

"Your dad musta been a big deal."

His comment feels like a punch to the gut. Noticing your reaction, Joel immediately regrets mentioning your father and clears his throat. "But 'Dirty Harry'? Really?" He laughs. 

Damn. 

Despite his mocking tone, your heart flutters. Why does his smile have to be so captivating? 

When he suddenly takes your hand, your heart races. He runs his fingertip gently between your thumb and index finger. "'F ya keep usin' that, you'll get yourself a callus," he remarks, pulling out his own revolver. "Give it a whirl."

You frown. "But this is your gun." 

"So? C'mon, give it a shot." 

You do what he says, picking up the gun and checking it out like he showed you. It’s lighter and shorter than yours. "This should be easier to handle."

"Wait, you're really giving me your gun? Why?" 

"It'll keep you outta hot water, y'know. While you can’t take down a Clicker in one shot," he jokes, making you squint at him. "But it’ll help you move quicker without that nasty kickback."

His eyes gleam as he keeps checking out your revolver, and you slap his shoulder playfully. "You sneaky old man. How long have you been eyeing my gun?" 

A sly smile tugs at his lips before he puts on a fake serious face. "Girl, I ain't got a clue what you are jawin' 'bout."

You chuckle. "Alright, fine, let’s pretend you’re not. And sure, let’s swap our guns." You poke him in the chest with your finger. "But just a heads up—if you mess up with that one, I’m ready to throw some fun Clint Eastwood jokes your way and I’ll be laughing until my ass hurts.”

‘°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°TWO WRONGS, ONE RIGHT°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°’

You arrive in Jackson in the late afternoon. As soon as the large wooden gates swing open, Tommy approaches you as you hand over your horses and weapons at the stables. “I want to take my backpack with me. I need what's inside,” you say.

"Sure thing, as long as ya ain't packin' no heat in there," he replies.

“Thanks, Tommy. Where's Taxi?”

“At the kennel.” Tommy can’t help but chuckle. "Girl, I swear... Every time you say 'taxi,' the first thing that hits me is that good ol' yellow cab."

“Dude, that's the damn point,” you reply with a wink.

As you walk toward the kennel with your backpack slung over your shoulder, the two brothers exchange glances.

Tommy looks at Joel, who shrugs and laughs. “What can I say? The girl has a sense of humor.”

Tommy raises his eyebrows in surprise; it’s not often he sees Joel laugh. "Right, Mr. Sunshine. That sun sure does light up your mug," he tosses back with a smirk.

Realizing he’s actually smiling for too long, Joel quickly regains his composure, rolling his eyes as his smile fades. “Shut up.”

Tommy grins as he walks away, sighing, “Man. Went from happy to grumpy faster than a jackrabbit."

As you arrive at the kennel to reunite with your dog, Taxi, you wrap your arms around him in a tight hug and spend some time together in his cage. His joyful barks and affectionate licks on your face fill you with happiness. After feeding him, you take a moment to examine him closely, feeling relieved to see that he’s unharmed. The clothes you found in the woods linger in your thoughts; Taxi would never run off like that unless someone had put your things there.

But who could it be?

And why?

You've only been in this town for three days.

“Hey there,” you hear Ellie’s voice call out, pulling you from your thoughts.

“Hi, Ellie!” you respond with a smile as she approaches the cage. She gently strokes Taxi’s head, and he happily licks her cheeks, earning a laugh from her.

“He really likes you,” you comment, glancing between the two of them.

“Same here—he and I get along well,” she reflects. “So, Joel came with you? I wasn't expecting that.”

“Didn't you know?”

“No, I was in my room sketching, you know, just messin’ ‘round with some sketches. Lost track of time, then I saw he was missing. Guess he figured I’d wanna ride along, especially since he’s still against me going on patrol. Sometimes his protective nature really gets to me," she says, gently stroking Taxi's neck. 

“He has a point, Ellie. You’re still young. He'll let you join when he thinks you're ready. He truly cares about you, so it's natural for him to worry.” 

“Yeah, he acts like my dad even though he isn't. I guess it’s just his way of being a father figure. Jessie and Dina says all dads are like that.” 

“No, they're not,” you murmur, running your fingers through Taxi's hair. You feel her gaze on you and smile at her; the last thing you want to do is upset her with your fucked-up story.

“Speaking of him,” she says, standing up and brushing the dust off her pants with her hands. “I should go check on him.”

“So, you're drawing, huh?” She turns to you. “Mind if I see? I've been doodling in my notebook since I was a kid.”

She laughs. “Really shitty stuff.”

You shrug. “Mine too.”

“Are you hitting on me?” she teases.

“God forbid, no, sister.” You stand up too, winking at her to show that you understand her sexual orientation. “My preference is more for someone with a mustache and beard, if you catch my drift.”

“Good, 'cause I’ve already got a crush on someone with the same name.” 

“Ah, check that out,” you say, laughing. 

“Just don’t let Joel know; he wouldn’t get it.” 

You chuckle. “Not surprised. He’s a bit... old-school.” 

“Big time,” she says, rolling her eyes with a grin. 

You both crack up. 

“What’s so funny, girls? Your laughter could be heard 'cross the town.” 

You both turn to Joel in disbelief and then share a look. Ellie gives Joel a sideways glance and locks her lips while staring at Taxi, just like you. “I was telling Kat about that joke book.” 

You raise an eyebrow at her, and she just shrugs. Joel glances between you and Ellie. “So you’ve given up on herding sheep?” 

“It’s boring. I miss my gun.” 

“Alright, if you promise not to slack off again, I’ll let you use it.” 

“Really? Well, I’m outta here,” she says, then pauses, raising her finger. “What’s a pirate’s favorite letter, Kat?” 

You frown, looking at Joel for a clue, and he rolls his eyes. “Not this shit again.” 

“Um...” you think. “Pirates love ships and the sea. Both start with ‘s’, right?” 

“You’re overthinking it Eistein,” Joel says, looking at you. “It’s a lame joke, so the answer's gotta be just as lame.” 

Ellie laughs. "Tis' the c.! You losers,” she says, stretching out the word and laughing again. 

You sigh and shake your head as the joke sinks in. As Ellie walks off, Joel watches her and then looks back at you. 

“Lame, but still funny, what do you say Taxi?"

Taxi barks and you giggle.

“He just swore,” you tease, glancing at Joel.

He chuckles, scratching his head as he walks over to you two.

“You two seem to get along well,” he remarks, hands on his hips. You notice how often he adopts that stance.

“With Ellie? Yeah, she's a bit quirky but sweet. In a way, she reminds me of my own teenage years. But she’s luckier than I was,” you reply, locking eyes with him.

He gets what you mean, but you miss the subtle gratitude in his gaze.

"You ain't that old; quit talkin' like you are.”

“I’ll be 30 soon, Joel,” you say, rolling your eyes.

Joel raises his eyebrows in surprise. "You messin' with me?"

“Why do you think I got upset with you earlier?”

He looks down, deep in thought. You sneak a glance at Taxi and then back to him, then standing to face him. “Look... I really shouldn’t have. I mean... I shouldn’t have said that stuff.” 

“That you’re not my kid?”

You lower your head, feeling the weight of the moment. “Yeah, that. I think I snapped because I felt like you were.. You know...putting me in the same spot as Ellie.”

Shaking his head, “No, never, I wasn’t,” he replies, his brown eyes holding an intense look.

You blink, struggling to grasp his meaning, but the confusion twists your thoughts. “So, just because you acted worried and all—”

"It ain't 'cause of that."

Another confusing statement.

You frown, struggling to shake off the spell cast by his puppy-like eyes. When someone calls your name, you finally manage to break eye contact and turn. As Zach strides over with a smirk, Joel's gaze remains fixated on you.

The wind playfully tugs at your hair, framing your jawline and neck—it’s that simple beauty that captures his attention, completely ignoring Zach’s approach.

Overwhelmed by swirling emotions, Joel feels a sudden rush of anger and turns away, purposely avoiding Zach as he passes. Zach pauses for a moment, casting a quick glance at Joel, but ultimately shrugs it off and moves closer to you. Your gaze lingers on Joel as he walks away, and you realize it will take time to adjust to his weird behavior.

If Joel struggles with his feelings, you’re even worse off.

It’s painfully clear that you express yourselves differently with every word that’s exchanged.

Joel is seasoned, molded by the trials of love, while you’re a novice—naïve and hesitant to trust your own emotions. You rely on your instincts, and that childlike interpretation of emotional signals only adds to the confusion.

It truly makes everything more complicated.

Two sides of the same coin, yet undeniably linked in their struggles.

So, the only option left is what you both know best: ignoring it.

But for now, or forever?

‘°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°TWO WRONGS, ONE RIGHT°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°’

That night in Jackson was a quiet one.

The guards stationed at the long, sturdy wall were changing shifts, ensuring that the townspeople slept peacefully.

You had grown so accustomed to your bed that you fell asleep as soon as your head hit the pillow, utterly exhausted from the day. After all, it had been a long time since you had slept in such a comfortable bed.

Joel, however, was restless.

He lay staring at the ceiling before turning to his right, his gaze landing on his jacket draped over the chair, softly illuminated by the moonlight spilling through the half-open window. The warm summer breeze rustled the curtains, adding to the serenity of the night.

But that night, another thought crept into his mind—one that had become all too familiar as he lay awake each night, contemplating his life. He thought of his past: the things he done, the things he lost, and the things he had found.

What he found—or what had found him—forcing a wave of unease to wash over him. It took him back to his youth, igniting a familiar rush of anxiety that made his palms sweat and his heart race as if he were a young man again.

Young Joel was all about purity—he was clean, simple, natural, and innocent. But now, at 56, he’s lost that. He’s got a lot of flaws, a heavy past weighing him down, and that innocence is long gone.

With an annoyed sigh, he kicked the blanket off and got out of bed. He padded across the floorboards in the dark, approaching the window with a mix of hesitation and resolve. Pulling back the edge of the fluttering curtain, he gazed out at the house beside his.

Funny, he thinks.

Just last week, that house was just another old, dusty, quiet, abandoned structure—a reflection of his own heart.

Maybe that is a silly comparison—just like Ellie’s jokes—but still, it holds a kernel of truth.

Could that girl actually find a way into his heart and stay there like she had with that house? Would he ever get the guts to let her in? And if he did, would she even want to come in?

Just thinking about it made him feel alive, thrilled.

As Joel wrestles with his muddled feelings, he suddenly spot a silhouette on the porch of that house across the street. The darkness obscure any details, but he follow the shadow as it bent down, seemingly placing something on the ground before stealthily hopping from one yard to another, avoiding the street. Whoever it is, they certainly aren’t up to anything good.

He turns, moving quietly across the creaking floorboards and descending the stairs until he step outside, scanning the surroundings. As he slip over the fence into the garden, he curses under his breath when his foot snagg on an old water pipe.

“Damn it Zach,” he mutters mentally chastising the kid for the clutter he created in vain attempts to fix the plumbing.

As he stealthily approaches the porch, he looks around, certain that silhouette has been there, yet his right side was turn just enough that he didn’t catch sight of the door slowly opening.

“Joel?” you whisper, but he doesn't hear you, and when you realize that, you are taken aback. “Joel!” you call a little louder, reaching out to touch his arm.

He turns in surprise, eyes wide as he looks at your worried expression, noticing the note trembling in your hand.

You hand it to him, and he takes it curiously.

As he read the pencil-written note, his brow furrows in confusion.

“I know who you are and what you did,” it says.

He lifts his gaze to meet yours, and in that brief moment, you both silently wonder the same thing:

Who wrote the note?

Notes:

Hey there! Just a heads up, the story might take some different twists than in the series. I hope you’re ready for a different vibe because we won’t be diving into Ellie's teenage angst, Joel's sadness, or any of my man's crying moments. It’s all in good fun, so feel free to share your thoughts!

Chapter 4: The Man Who Kiss You for the First Time

A peaceful night.

Just what you need.

You thought you would sleep soundly when you crawled into bed, but now you wake up feeling restless. Cursing under your breath, you sit up. It feels strange; you should be deep asleep by now, given how tired you are, yet something has stirred you awake.

That line from that cheesy love book fluttered through your mind: “If you can’t sleep, someone must be thinking about you.”

What a load of nonsense.

Seriously, how did anyone buy into those stories back then?

And those romance movies—werewolves and humans, vampires and humans, even demons and humans.

What’s so fascinating about that?

Why does love always get portrayed this way?

It seems cliché that it’s always about two people?

It’s downright strange.

But who are you to judge?

You’ve never looked at someone of the opposite sex that way, let alone fallen in love. Maybe that's why those movies and books seem so empty to you. You thought about the that kid from QZ, who had just been assigned to Fedra back then. He was around your age. You had a brief crush on him -or you thought you did-, but the closest you got was when he gave you a music cassette. After that, your father swooped in, as he always did, obviously alienating you from him and everyone else.

That was all your experience with men.

The education at Fedra's school wasn’t exactly great—it mostly focused on human reproduction, which seemed kind of basic and awkward. There wasn’t much talk about feelings or deeper connections.

Still, you did manage to learn a few things.

Oh, and those racy books you stumbled upon in some abandoned stores... You read them with wide eyes, even though you had no clue what they really meant. Everything was laid out, but putting that knowledge into practice seemed like a whole different ball game.

With a bit of curiosity, you found yourself exploring your body, wondering what it felt like, but you ended up with a complete failure. It wasn't as simple as following a recipe in a cookbook.

A 29-year-old, clueless virgin who's never even been kissed—just fuckin' great.

You’d probably be the laughingstock if you were in the old world. More, you’re not just a physical virgin; you’re an emotional one too—well, almost. You’ve often wondered what it’d be like, considering no man in your life—excluding those vile rapists—has ever touched you with any intent. But you've avoided everyone and everything for years -you have every valid reason-, until you met him.

Joel.

Never in a million years did you think you’d be drawn to someone his age, someone like him. Even now, you can hardly believe it.

When he touches you, it feels... 

Strange. Natural. Safe. Warm.

You can't quite name it, but it’s something new and foreign yet undeniably pleasant.

Kinda makes you long for another touch from him.

And those lips... you keep thinking, "I wish he’d kiss me so I could finally know what it feels like."

The curiosity grows.

What the heck?

Why are you smiling?

What’s up with your racing heart?

Wow, you keep surprising yourself.

Maybe these reactions are normal, or maybe you're just losing your mind, but either way, you’re left in the dark.

Joel feels a little... different.

Complex, even impossible.

Just a few years younger than your evil dad.

Uggh.

You lie back down, burying your head under the pillow, and let out a soft whimper. “What the fuck is wrong with me?” you grunt.

Then, you hear it—a sound. It resembles creaking wood. Instincts kick in. You leap out of bed, your senses on high alert, a habit honed over the years. Your hand instinctively reaches for your weapon, but you’re only in a T-shirt and underwear.

Great.

You’ll have to get used to this odd sense of comfort, or it’ll never feel normal. And you’ll need to adjust to the sounds too, because it’s probably just that—a sound.

Or maybe it’s not.

Still, you have to check.

Trust no one, nothing.

Open your eyes and keep your senses sharp. Those lessons you learned on your first day of training have woven into your life, like a lullaby you hum before bed, a piece of clothing you wear daily. Yet, thanks to that training, you've protected yourself for years against all dangers, infected, enemies.

You can’t just walk away from that.

Before getting out of bed in the dark, you slip on the sweatpants you had thrown on the floor and make your way to the stairs. A strong instinct tells you the sound came from the porch—Zach mentioned earlier that he could lay the pipes along the edge there and made a minor, clumsy attempt that left it a bit damp.

Just now, it sounded like footsteps coming from that direction.

But you need to be sure. You have to see it; otherwise, sleep will forever elude you.

As you descend the stairs and approach the door, a wave of vulnerability washes over you. You need your guns, but they won't let you have them, so all you've got are your fists and some close-combat training to keep you safe. Still, you can’t help but feel a bit exposed.

No movement creeps in through the windows.

Reaching for the doorknob, something brushes against your bare foot. It’s a piece of pale yellow paper, likely torn from a notebook, with small but messy handwriting. The scrawl looks like that of a kid. The way it’s folded suggests it was slipped under the door, and despite the poor penmanship, the message written in bold letters sends a chill down your spine.

“I know who you are and what you did.”

The words feel heavy, making your throat tighten. You find yourself frozen in place.

Who could have written this? You realize your hand is shaking, causing the paper to quiver.

Someone knows you—the real you.

But who? And why?

It’s kind of creepy to think that this person knows about the worst things you’ve done.

There are a few that come to mind.

Which one do they know about?

Suddenly, another noise breaks the tense silence. It sounds like something hitting the pipes in the garden, and you instinctively glance out the window near the door. Although it’s dark outside, the moonlight casts a soft glow on Joel’s figure, illuminating his hair and shoulders just enough to complete his silhouette.

Relief washes over you at the sight of him. You trust him implicitly—not because it’s unlikely he’d do something sinister, or because he doesn’t really know who you are and what you’ve been through. No, it’s deeper than that; your instincts lead you to trust him before any logical reasoning kicks in.

It’s that simple.

You also grapple with the idea of whether to show him the paper and how he might react. But that worry fades as he steps onto the porch and the familiar creak of the wood pulls you back to the moment.

Without overthinking, you swing open the door.

The first thing that catches your eye is the watch on his wrist, something you’re certain you’ve never seen before. Of course, you’ve never seen him in a T-shirt either, which gives you a fresh perspective on his arms and shoulders, the contours of his muscles more noticeable now. If he wears that watch all the time, it must have been hiding under his jacket until now. You’re a bit taken aback that he hasn’t noticed you yet, even though you’re staring right at him.

“Joel?” you whisper, but he doesn't hear you, and when you realize that, you are taken aback. “Joel!” you call a little louder, reaching out to touch his arm.

He turns in surprise, eyes wide as he looks at your worried expression, noticing the note trembling in your hand.

You hand it to him, and he takes it curiously.

As he read the pencil-written note, his brow furrows in confusion. You, however couldn’t help but wonder why he seemed totally zoned out for a second. Then it clicked—the scar on his temple was definitely from a bullet, probably messing with his hearing for a bit. He lifts his gaze to meet yours, and in that brief moment, you both silently wonder the same thing: Who wrote the note?

You found yourself getting lost in his eyes, thinking about who might have written that note, all while feeling a strong sense of sympathy for him.

“You alright?” His deep, concerned voice breaks through your thoughts.

How do you tell him?

How do you explain that you’re not focused on the note at all, that your real worry is how he’s coping with his sudden hearing loss? You’re curious about why his watch is broken and what struggles he’s been through. It’s strange, but instead of being wrapped up in your own likely major problem, you found yourself concerned about this man’s past hardships—things you knew nothing about.

Misreading the expression on your face, Joel placed his hand on your shoulder and gestured toward the interior. “Y'wan'na have a seat? Y'ain't lookin' too good."

No, I’m not good, damn it.

Especially when you’re touching me, you think.

You let him lead you inside, his hand still on your shoulder, as he wrapped his arm around you. Once seated on the couch, you look up at him standing beside you, the warmth of his brown eyes scanning your face.

A face that actually cares about you.

That’s not something you encounter often. It's so rare you could hardly count it on one hand—if you tried, you’d raise your index finger for William, the second for Taxi, and the third... for Joel.

For some reason, that thought brought a pleasant feeling, but you worried that if you smiled, he might think you were losing your mind.

Awesome, you’re losing it!

“I swung by when I spotted a shadow on yer porch. Reckon someone left that note. Y'got any clue who it could be?

You gather your thoughts and shake your head; the best response you could manage at that moment.

"It might be the same person that tossed your clothes in the woods. So ponder this... who could it be? Why are they doin' this?”

You look away. “I don’t know,” you mutter.

Joel sighes and sit down next to you. The old couch sways slightly under his weight, and so do you, but you avoid looking at him. Your gaze settles instead on his almost-touch of your knees.

You lift your head in surprise. A faint smile break across his lips as he touches the sweatpants on your leg. “You're wearin' them inside out.”

You looked down in disbelief. “Well, I-I was in a rush, heard a noise… Couldn’t see in the dark, alright?”

His smile widen, and you can't help but return it, if only for a moment. “Forget that—tell me, old man. Instead of catching some sleep at this hour, were you spying on my porch?” you tease.

His smile fades, but there is still a sparkle in his eyes. “Now don’t go sidetracking me. Who wrote that note?”

You shoot him a sharp look. “Do I look like I know?”

“Well, spill the beans on what you know then.  First off, 'who are you and what have you done'? Sounds like a mighty fine place to start."

If he keeps giving you that intense look, you’re definitely gonna let everything slip. It’s like he can see straight into your soul.

“You already know my name,” you reply, trying to keep your unease at bay, but it is super tough under his unwavering gaze. “As for what I’ve done... Everyone has a history, right? Mine is my own damn business.”

He narrows his eyes slightly before rolling them and getting up. "If ya ain’t bein' straight with us, we can’t help you.”

"Us? We? Or are you just gonna go and spill it to Tommy?"

He place his hands on his hips, shrugs. “I gotta.”

You stand up, looking at him with an edge of anxiety.  “Joel, please. Don’t tell him.”

“Tell me why.”

“Just please,” you insisted.

Shaking his head. “Tell me why, Kat. I gotta know, you hear?"

You swallow hard; this isn’t easy, and you are unsure how to respond. "'Cause if you don’t, I’ll dig up the truth myself. Then I’ll have to believe what I find out.”

“I promised,” you say, recalling William. “I promised someone.”

He meet your eyes with more intensity, nodding as if he understands. “Alright, I get it, but you have to realize that this here mess impacts the whole town. Tommy's gotta be in the loop."

“And Maria as well right?” you mutter, knowing full well that Tommy wouldn’t keep this under wraps from her.

Silence settles between you, and as you examined the floorboards—staring at the broken pieces, lost in thought—Joel approaches, studying your face. “I know that trusting someone can be really hard. 'Specially for you... That ain't easy.”

Damn it, he is like reading your thoughts. “What do you mean ‘especially for me’?”

"You've been out there for a mighty long time. You say ya ain't got no family or anyone you know. I sure understand what it feels like to be alone, and I reckon it's tough to trust someone new, 'specially in a world like this." He turns his gaze to your kitchen, takin' a deep breath as he goes on, "Wish you could trust me. Whatever weight ya carry, ya can share it with me..." He looks at you, hunting for the right words. "As the man who saved you." You raise your eyebrows in surprise. "In a way, I did save you girl; you can't deny that."

You smile warmly at his cocky demeanor. “You did,” you reply softly, almost whispering. “You saved me.”

You saved me at the firefly hospital, but it’s impossible for me to say that right now, you think to yourself as he flashes a small smirk.

Suddenly, Joel looks down at the note in his hand, and something seems to click in his mind. He meets your gaze again, and this time, something in his eyes shifts; you find it impossible to look away.

“That day... you got it right while guessing,” he admits in a broken voice, growing hoarser with each word. “Scar,” he says, pointing to the scar on his temple. He looks down again. “Bullet graze.”

You focus intently on him.

In that instant, you feel a wave of sorrow and pain wash over him, mirrored in his expression.

“I did it,” he admits, and suddenly your blood runs cold.

“I lost my daughter... Sarah..." he says the name like a whisper. "...on the first night of the outbreak...” he reveals, and it feels as if a knife pierces your heart. “Without her... felt pointless. It was that simple..." he takes a deep shaky breathe. "I was ready but messed it up at the last moment.”

What he’s sharing weighs heavily on you, almost crushing you under the weight of it. Your knees weaken, and you close your eyes, allowing tears you didn't know were coming to flow freely. Your breathing becomes ragged, leaving you unsure of what to say. “J-Joel, I...”

He places his hand on your shoulder comfortingly. “I know, I know. I ain’t tell you to make you sad. Anyway, the reason I'm telling you all this...”

“I get it...” you say, quickly wiping your tears away and sniffling. You look back at him. “If my dad had been even half the dad you are, I wouldn’t have had to deal with what was written in that note slipped under my door.”

Joel brushes away a tear from the corner of his eye. “Well. I'll take what I can get."

“One day,” you promise, looking directly into his eyes, “I’ll tell you everything. But today isn’t that day.”

For a moment, you both lock eyes, trying to share all the feelings racing through you .

Two broken souls.

“Alright then,” Joel says, folding the note and tucking it into his pocket. “I should head out. You best get some shut-eye 'fore the sun's up; you've had yourself a long day and a longer night."

You nod. “Yeah.”

He walks towards the door, you follow him. He opens it and glances back at you. “Don’t worry,” he assures you confidently. "We’ll track down whoever it is."

“Um...Okay,” you reply uncertainly.

As Joel is about to leave, pulling the door shut behind him, you call out, “Hey, Joel.”

He turns, his eyebrows raised in curiosity.

You fold your arms and try to keep your excitement in check because of what you’re about to tell him. “I... I’m glad you messed up.”

When he understands what you mean, he smiles. “Me too,” he says, closing the door. But suddenly he gives up, you glance back at him, surprised. Seeing Joel’s wider smile takes your breath away. “I reckon ya ain't up for a lame joke but um… Ellie said you're all about space, just like her. Figured I'd pass this on to ya..”

You roll your eyes playfully. “What is it?”

“Did you heard 'bout the claustrophobic astronaut?”

You frown, searching the room with your eyes, but eventually, you give up and pout.

Joel grins. “He just needed a little space,” he says, feigning sadness, pursing his lips.

You stifle a laugh and smile for a brief moment before covering your face with your hand. “Oh my God. This is lame. You’re lame.”

He gives you a crooked smile, his hand still lingering on the door handle. “Hey,” he says, almost serious. “You just laughed,” he adds with a grin.

Unable to suppress your laughter, you say, “C'mon. Get outta here,” giving him a playful shove to push him outside.

"Well now, seein' that smile of yours makes me reckon I can catch some Z's just fine,” he replies, looking into your eyes before he closes the door.

You linger for a moment, your smile spreading wider, feeling a new warm feeling within you, your cheeks flushing and something fluttering in your stomach.

‘°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°TWO WRONGS, ONE RIGHT°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°’

The following morning, Zach arrives bright and early on the porch, toolbox in hand, along with a fresh supply of pipes. You invite him inside, checking if your neighbors are up, but you don’t see Ellie and Joel around; perhaps they’ve already gone out for the day.

In any case, you have plenty to keep you occupied for now. Zach shares his stories about the town while he attempts to work, his amusing blunders keep you entertained. However, by noon, it feels like no progress has been made, and new problems keep cropping up. Bored, you step out onto the porch, rearranging a couple of chairs until you find a comfortable spot to sit, propping your feet up on one of them.

Taking your notebook from your backpack, you start by sketching Joel in your mind, then switch gears to draw Zach as he lays pipe inside the house, just like he mentioned yesterday. You jot down a few notes when suddenly, the sound of footsteps draws your attention. Quickly closing your notebook—a sort of diary you prefer to keep private—you lower your feet and turn to see Maria's sister, the woman you saved from the stalkers that day, walking into the garden with a warm smile.

“Hi, Ava!” Zach calls out, waving to her.

“Hey Zach, how's it going?” she replies warmly.

Zach stands with his hands on his hips, letting out a deep sigh. "It's almost done," he says, glancing at you with a smile. You muster a smile in return, though hearing him say "it's almost done" for the third hour in a row is starting to wear thin.

Ava turns to you, asking, “So, how are you?” Holding out a plastic container, she adds, “I made some cookies.”

Curious, you take the container from her and peek inside. “Wow, it’s been ages since I’ve had cookies. Thank you,” you say, motioning to one of the chairs. “Have a seat.”

Ava accepts your invitation and takes a seat while you settle down across from her, placing the container next to your backpack on the floor. Her gaze is fixed on you as you sit down. “I couldn’t make it earlier. Maria mentioned you had a tough day yesterday.”

“Yeah, that's true.”

“I’m really glad your dog is okay. I owe both of you a huge thank you,” she replies earnestly.

“It’s really no big deal.”

“Actually, it is,” she insists, this time capturing your full attention. She could easily pass for Maria's sister—shorter and younger, but their skin tones are identical. “I don’t usually go on patrols, but I took Astrid and Chad with me to retrace my steps for a necklace I dropped. It was reckless. If anything had happened to Maria and her baby that day, I don’t think I could ever forgive myself.” She tightly clasps the end of the necklace around her neck.

“Looks like a wedding ring,” you observe, leaning in for a closer look.

“It belonged to my husband,” she replies, her voice trembling.

“Oh,” you murmur, sensing a heartbreaking story lies beneath the surface as tears well in her eyes.

“He had eczema, and when the finger he couldn’t wear the ring on was sore, he’d give it to me to wear around my neck,” she explains, managing a small smile. “That night... The night when everything fell apart, he went into town to get his medication. When Maria called to say she was on her way to pick me up with her son Kevin, I tried calling him. But he didn’t answer. The city was being bombed, and…”

You swallow hard as tears start to stream down her face. Guilt surges within you, threatening to pull you under.

It's all your father's fault.

He created the virus; it's on him.

And you’re his daughter.

As those long-dormant inner voices reemerge, your throat goes dry, and your chest tightens.

“I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to upset you,” she says, standing up and coming over to you, gently touching your shoulder.

“Are you okay? Do you want some water?” Zach asks, setting down the hose and moving toward you, but you stop him by raising your hand.

Taking a deep breath, you reply, “No, I’m fine.”

“Alright,” Zach nods and goes back to his work while Ava settles across from you, letting out a sigh.

“Kevin…,” you murmur. “I saw his name on the memorial at Maria’s house. Kevin and Sarah.”

“Yes, Kevin was my niece, Maria’s son. And Sarah… well, she’s Joel’s daughter,” she replies, glancing towards her house.

The memorial flashes back in your mind, the dates etched into your memory, along with what Joel revealed to you last night.

“I guess we’ve all been through some horrendous things. Things that leave lasting scars.” Ava plays with her necklace, kissing it lightly. “What about you? Does your story compare to mine?”

You look at her, a faint, troubled smile creeping onto his lips, and you brush it off by saying, “Let’s just say that.” Your thoughts linger on Joel and what kind of father he must have been, and the grief he must carry after losing his daughter.

“Zach’s a good kid,” Ava finally says after a pause, watching him work. “You’re still young; have you ever been married or had someone special in your life?”

You regard her cautiously. “Why do you ask?”

She smiles, a knowing look in her eyes. “It’s not just me — the whole town is curious.” 

“Um… What?”

“You and Joel. The town can’t stop buzzin' 'bout the two of you since yesterday. After all, you’re the new girl in town.”

You raise an eyebrow in surprise and blink. “New girl in town? Thought that was just a musical,” you reply, injecting a hint of sarcasm.

Ava laughs. “That was a good one, though,” she says, getting up. “But, it ain't 'bout you bein' new, darlin'. It's 'bout Tommy's brother, that ol' grump Joel Miller has been spotted carrying this new girl all over town,” she adds, with a playful tone.

You look at her in confusion, and she lets out a sigh. “Anyway, if you two aren't really a thing, people will probably forget about it in no time. No biggie. Gotta bounce now; Maria’s got just a month left, don’t wanna leave her hanging. Catch you later, sweetie,” she says, waving as she heads out of your garden.

“See you later, Ava,” you call after her, adjusting your gaze as she walks away.

What did she mean by “all over town”?

“Hey, Kat…”

You turn at the sound of Zach’s cheerful voice, and for some reason, he’s wearing a huge grin. You look at him, real look. He’s a handsome, kind boy with hair that looks almost golden in the sun and eyes as blue as the ocean. His features are strikingly beautiful, way too beautiful.

Over the years, everything you’ve seen in magazines, read in books, and watched in movies has conditioned you to believe that men with looks like his are something special—characters that everyone chases after. If the world hadn’t crumbled because of your father, Zach might have been one of those guys everyone flocked to.

Even now, you notice the way other girls his age gaze at him.

But not for you obviously.

You don’t feel a thing.

Maybe there’s something wrong with you.

Actually, yes, there is.

You’re nothing like the other girls, and you know it.

While it’s true you may not be able to change who you are or your situation, maybe your feelings can shift.

You’ve never really delved into these unfamiliar emotions before.

And maybe those feelings have already found a home in someone else’s heart.

“Do you hear me?” Zach asks, tilting his head as he studies you.

“Um, sorry, what did you say?”

“I said, you can take a nice shower tonight since I wrapped up the plumbing,” he says, giving a proud smirk.

“Wow, that’s great!” you exclaim. “Thanks, Zach. You actually did it.”

He stares at your lips for a moment, captivated by your smile, then scratches his head shyly. “No problem. Well… I’m just gonna head home and take a shower now,” he says, glancing at his dirt-covered self. “If you buy me dinner, we’ll be all square. How’s that sound?”

You nod. "Alright. But first, I gotta check on Taxi," You flash him another smile, and he lights up in response.  
"Deal. I’ll tag along with you."

Unbeknownst to you, someone else is watching your interaction with keen interest.

Joel furrows his brow as he observes from an upstairs window, bone saw in hand. He’s spent the entire day working on a guitar for Ellie while she’s been away, but the pieces of bone meant for the guitar nut remain unfinished.

He can’t focus.

His neighbor’s plumbing work has invaded both his ears and his thoughts.

And seeing you smile at Zach doesn’t help either. He watches you two walk side by side down the road, puzzled over how that clumsy kid managed to charm you.

Feeling an unexpected rush of emotions he hasn’t experienced in a long time catches him off guard. His protective and obsessive instincts kick in, and he feels tormented by them. As you turn the corner and disappear from view, something inside him snaps. He can’t help but picture himself in Zach’s shoes, walking alongside you.

Then he mutters a curse under his breath.

He rips off his protective goggles and flings them onto the workbench.

“Better to throw myself into buildin' this guitar to dodge my feelin's for a bit,” he thought when suns up and start to work early, but that plan totally backfired.

The first thing he sees when he opens his eyes in the morning is your face, although he’d expected to see Ellie’s or Sarah's.

But not this morning.

And that unsettles him.

Fills him with guilt.

Makes him restless.

His feelings draw him toward you—your smile, the slight dimple that appears when you laugh, your hair, your lashes, the captivating color of your eyes, your gaze, your lips…

Damn it, all he can think about is you.

Even when he squeezes his eyes shut, you’re still there.

As if teasing him.

He feels as if all his emotions and perceptions have been hijacked by you. He’s been working hard since morning, but he’s barely made it through half the guitar, and he still hasn’t gotten around to shaping the nuts.

Hold on a second.

He didn’t chop the nuts the right way...

And now the whole thing is just trashed.

Goddammit.

He looks at the saw in his hand and then slams it down on the desk in frustration.

Gotta go see Seth again to trade for another bone.

Awesome.

Nice job, Joel.

After brushing away the bone dust that has settled, he quickly hops in the shower to change clothes after stepping out of his mini workshop, deciding he’ll tackle the unfinished work tomorrow morning.

‘°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°TWO WRONGS, ONE RIGHT°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°’

Ava was right.

The entire town must have been gossiping about you, as their gazes lingered on you throughout the meal. Zach barely paused to breathe while he talked, sharing endless stories about himself and his repair work, and you couldn’t help but feel the urge to grab his spoon and shove food into his mouth to shush him up.

When Jesse and Dina—Ellie’s friend—dropped by, you felt a pang of longing for Ellie. When you asked about her, Jesse mentioned he saw her with a girl named Kat, the tattoo artist Ellie had mentioned. After dinner, his father called him over, and you felt a wave of relief to finally be free of Zach.

As you step onto the street, a boy named Ted approaches and hands you another drawing. He sketched the Taxi again. It isn’t very detailed; after all, it was a child’s artwork, but you thank him and chat with his older brother.

Maria, Tommy, and… Joel…

You feel a mix of curiosity and down, having not seen them since that morning. A few passersby greet you with “hey,” and you smile back, though you can’t shake your nerves.

The unsettling thought that the person who wrote the note might be among them, watching you, is deeply troubling.

Who can it be?

No idea spring to mind.

You are convinced they had sinister intentions. Why did William mark this spot on the map in the first place?

Could it somehow relate to all of this?

You glance at the people milling about—parents walking their kids, folks chatting, laughter filling the air—and feel a heavy wish that he were here too. Together, you could have found happiness in this place. But there is no word from him. You need to reach your meeting spot with him as soon as possible.

It's imperative to talk to Tommy about getting you on patrol; that is your ticket to heading out. But from what you gather, they don’t send anyone out alone.

Suddenly, someone calles your name, pulling you from your thoughts. It is the doctor, Ethan. He hurries over to you.

“I’m glad I caught you. I have a few questions for you at the clinic. Will you come with me?”

The very mention of the clinic, or hospital, makes you shudder with revulsion. No one could harbor more hate for you than they did there. You have solid reasons to feel that way.

“If it’s about my wound, I’m better now.”

“That too. Come on.” He reaches out a hand toward the clinic.

You bite your lip. “Can’t I just skip it?”

“Should I examine your wound here on the street?” he asks, eyeing the people around.

You roll your eyes and pout.

“Thought so,” he says with a cheeky grin. “Let’s go.”

With a sigh, you follow him to the clinic.

Once inside, that familiar smell engulfs you, the stench that you can’t stand. As you settle onto the examination bed, Ethan first check the wound on your belly. “Looks much better,” he says, applying some ointment “How's your stomach holding up? Have you felt nauseous again or thrown up?”

You raise your eyebrows. “I don’t follow.”

"When Joel brought you in the other day, you seemed really out of it. He mentioned you mixed alcohol with your meds, then you ended up throwing up. I got worried it might have been food poisoning."

That catch you off guard since you remember waking up on his couch that day and he never mentioned about this.

“You should have seen Joel’s face when you threw up on him,” Ethan chuckles, leaning in closer.

You doesn’t share in his amusement; instead, you frown and shot him a dirty look. Realizing you were giving him the same look as Joel, he pause, surprised by the resemblance in your reactions.

“Anyway, if you’d been yourself that day, I would’ve discussed your blood values…” he continues, rifling through test result papers on his desk. He glances at the figures and made notes: Red blood cell count (RBC), hemoglobin (HGB), red blood cell indices (MCV, RDW, MCH, MCHC), platelet count (PLT)—all are alarmingly low. Technically, we could do a blood transfusion, but your type is AB negative...and I don’t think anyone here in Jackson matches that," he says with a hint of sadness. “It’s the rarest blood type…”

“I know,” you reply, gripping the sides of the treatment bed tightly.

Of course, you're well aware; you heard that line countless times.

“But at least we have iron supplements,” he says, retrieving some boxes from a cabinet behind him.

You feel your heart race when he pulled out a damn needle from that box.

“The other effective treatment for anemia is an iron injection—” he states as he approaches you.

You instinctively flinch. “I know what that is! Please, just keep that damn thing away from me!”

Ethan frowns. “You telling me you have trypanophobia?” he laughs. “You, the girl who managed to protect and save six people from infected?”

How can you explain?.

Maybe he’d understand if he saw the countless needle marks on your arms. But you know he’d just bombard you with questions.

“Ethan, please,” you plead in a thin, earnest voice. “Isn’t there another way?”

He sighs and raises his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Alright, I’ll give you iron pills instead,” he concedes, looking a bit annoyed.

You feel a huge sense of relief as he puts the needle back in the box. Quickly, you grab the pills and rush out before he has a chance to change his mind. Your hands shake a bit, thinking about how much that injection used to hurt and how close you came to getting one just now.

You likely left him feeling confused and suspicious, but you are not giving a damn about that now.

As you flip the pillbox in your hand, weighing it against others you've had, Ellie approaches you, accompanied by a girl with short black hair.

“Are those even legal?” she jokes. 

“Or are you just trying to get high with those pills?” the other girl jumps in, adding to the teasing. 

You give them a glance and roll your eyes. “I wish. They're just iron pills,” you answer, stealing a look at the other girl. “I guess they’re better than using needles.”

“Needles, huh? Yikes.” Ellie shakes her head, then turns to her friend. “Alright, guess it’s time for the two Kats to finally meet,” she says with a grin. 

The girl smiles and extends her hand, revealing tattoos that adorn the back of her hand and arm. “Hi there.” 

“Nice to meet you,” you say, admiring her ink. 

"Same here," she says, pulling her hand back and glancing over at Ellie. "I gotta bounce now; Bonnie's stopping by for another tattoo session. Catch you later!" She gives you a wink as she heads off.

“O-okay,” Ellie says, a smirk forming as she watches her go. She takes a deep breath. 

“She seems nice,” you comment, glancing after her. 

“She really is,” she responds, a flicker of concern flashing across her face. 

You tilt your head, sensing her unease. “Is everything alright?” 

Ellie rolls her eyes and exhales deeply, puffing her cheeks. “She’s a little… Damn…” She leans in closer and lowers her voice, as if sharing a secret. “She kissed me.”

Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Wait… Was that your first kiss—” 

“No, no, no. Not my first,” she interrupts, “it just caught me off guard, you know.” 

“Why’s that?” 

Suddenly, she looks a bit lost in thought, hesitating to say what’s on her mind. “I don’t know. I didn’t see it coming, and… well,  just a kiss, right?” 

“How did it make you feel?”

She gives a soft smile. “Nice.”

Looks like she's a few steps ahead of you in experiences.

After all, you’ve never kissed anyone or been kissed before.

Props to Ellie.

“Anyway, you said you were sketchin' stuff, right?” 

You met her gaze. “Yeah.” 

“I’m, um, Kat… I mean the other Kat… I wanna get a tattoo, but have no idea what to choose.” 

You smile, empathizing with her uncertainty, and take her arm. “Let’s see what kind of design we can come up with together.”

‘°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°TWO WRONGS, ONE RIGHT°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°’

On the way home with Ellie, she chats with you at length about Kat. Yet, something about this other Kat doesn't sit right with you, especially when Ellie keeps bringing up her smoking weed. You realize you aren’t particularly attracted to her.

But then again, what do you really know about relationships?

It's hard to pin down since you’ve never had siblings, but Ellie feels like a sister.

A real one.

Perhaps that's why you feel a bit possessive—it's a strange sensation, one you've never experienced before. It turns out you’re not as indifferent as you thought.

As you grab your backpack from the porch and head over to Ellie and Joel's house, you feel excited to see him. After all, it feels like ages since you last saw him—well, since early this morning, but still.

“Yo Joel! You in there?” Ellie shouts, but there's no reply. “Guess he’s out grabbing some food. Just come on in.”

Curiosity piques as she invites you upstairs. You’ve never been up there before.

You step into a medium-sized hallway lined with doors on both sides, clearly Joel’s domain, since Ellie turns left. She swings open a door and motions for you to come in, her arms stretching wide. “Welcome to my secret world.”

You shoot her a playful look and enter.

The room is charming, filled with a desk that holds some blank papers above it, pencils, a pen holder, and posters of the moon phases and an astronaut playing guitar. On the right is a bed, and the walls are plastered with posters of Nirvana, Savage Starlight, Mortal Kombat II, and others—which is fantastic.

“Wow, it’s like stepping into your mind,” you comment.

“You really wouldn’t want to go in there, trust me,” she replies.

You spot a sketch of a horse taped to the wall and take a closer look. “Not bad at all. It’d be even better if you focused a bit more on the anatomy stuff.”

She grumbles, pulling out a few pages from her sketchbook and a blank notebook from her nightstand drawer. “'Anatomy,' she says,” she mimics you. “You sound like an expert, like you’ve had practice.”

“Books were my go-to for learning. That’s where I picked up a lot and practiced a ton,” you say, pulling out your sketchbook from your bag while keeping your journal hidden away. 

“Wow, this is awesome,” she says, flipping through your sketches. “I need to get some of those books too...”

“No need, girl, they’re all here,” you say, pointing to your head.

You both draw for a while, sharing tips and discarding the sketches you don’t like. As you work on her potential tattoo design, you collect the ones you prefer and create a few new ideas. Not wanting to pry, you guess she has her bite mark hidden on her arm, but you don’t focus on it. You’ve only drawn half the design when Ellie picks up one of your drawings and studies it with interest.

“Hmm William… Who’s this? Your dad or something?” she says, pointing at the drawing.

You take a breath, wishing it were true. “I wish,” you say, continuing with your drawing. “He was the one I trusted most in this life.”

"Oh-okay." Ellie keeps browsing through your sketches without pressing further. You’ve drawn nature, animals, and scenes from your shitty life over the years. Then she pause at another drawing. “Aha! Look who’s here!” she teases with a big grin, holding up the drawing of Joel’s face.

Your heart races; that drawing mirrors how you first saw him, and it’s one of the few you made to remember his face.

You look away, feeling flustered and embarrassed. Ellie perches across from you on the bed. “Look, he’s… not great at expressing his feelings.”

You glance up at her curiously. “I wouldn’t call him a great person, but… he’s the one I trust most in this world,” she confides, referring to your William. “If it wasn’t for him, I don’t think I’d be here right now.”

“Why are you telling me this?” you ask softly, waiting nervously for her answer, hoping it’s what you need to hear.

“‘Cause this grumpy ol' man probably has a soft spot for you… big time,” she says, pointing at the drawing and grinning playfully.

You stop at the words 'big time.' “How do you figure that out?” you ask.

“Let’s see. When your name comes up, he pays attention and asks about you. He. Joel… he never does that for anyone else. He usually just hangs out and seems indifferent. But he cares about you, I know it. My question is… how do you feel about him?”

You swallow.

Just then, you hear the sound of the door closing, and you finish your drawing before setting it aside. “We can revisit this drawing later,” you say, brushing off the topic. Ellie’s gaze remains fixed on you, but you try to ignore it. As you take the drawing back from her, you say, “Can this stay between us? Please?”

"Fine." She smiles and makes a zipper gesture over her lips, making you smile back.

"Ellie?"

At the sound of Joel's voice, you get up from the bed and start picking up the papers that you had scattered on the floor. As you do, Ellie opens the door and gives you a look. "Hey, I’ll take care of it."

"It's fine," you reply, continuing to tidy up.

The creaking of the stairs grows louder, and Joel glances up, visibly uneasy when he sees Ellie coming up, hiding something beneath his jacket. "Hey there, kiddo. What's up?"

"Hey, smuggler." She tiltes her head to side curiously. "What ya got hidin’ there?"

He clears his throat, looking a bit flustered. "Nothin'..."

"Sounds like something I shouldn’t see. Is it somethin' only adults oughta know 'bout?"

"Jesus,” Joel mutters, shaking his head. “No, Ellie. Ain't nothin' like that."

Joel's tense voice piques your curiosity, so you step closer to Ellie and look at Joel.

"Um—" Joel freezes when he notices you.

"Hey, Joel," you say, waving your hand, and your eyes naturally drift to what he's tucking away in his jacket.

"Hey," he says, his eyes locking with yours for a moment, and then he hums as he climbs the last step. "I ain't never seen nobody stroll into Ellie's room 'fore.."

"We were making some sketches," Ellie says, giving you a sideways glance. "Kat's downright talented at it."

You smile nervously. "Nah, not that much"

Joel nods, "I reckon it is. I'd be mighty keen to see your art sometime. Now. 'F you'll pardon me," he says and heads towards his room.

"Wonder what he's hiding," Ellie says, turning to you.

Knowing he's making a guitar for Ellie, you make a weak guess. "I don't think he would have kept it from you if it was something you needed to see."

"What the hell does that mean, Miss Mysterious?"

"Nothing, just sayin'."

She squints and folds her arms. "You know what? You two are kinda alike."

You smirk. "Whatever. Since Zach finally got the pipes sorted out, I think I’ll go hop in the shower. I've been a bit ripe since yesterday."

"Alright, good night then."

"Night, Ellie."

As soon as you arrive home and walk in, you head upstairs. You really need a good shower, a hot one. You throw your bag on your bed and take off your shirt, then your pants. You find a towel among the clothes Maria traded for you and hang it on the hook next to the shower, along with a bathrobe. You place your clean underwear on the bed, get rid of your dirty ones, and turn the tap to turn it on.

But what the hell?

There's no hot water.

You wait almost ten minutes, but it's still freezing.

"Damn it, Zach," you mutter. You put on your bathrobe and head downstairs. You go to the boiler and check the hot water settings, the valves, the pipes. But you're really bad at this; everything here is so complicated, and you're sure you've never seen anything like it before. You whine, your dreams of a hot shower dashed.

That's when you hear a noise right there in the kitchen. Some pipes are laid out on the floor and lead upstairs.

Okay, you're no expert, but this sure seems strange.

And the sound comes again, from one of the pipes. You approach, and even though you realize this is a huge mistake, it's too late to back away. It bursts out of the pipe joints and gushes out, flooding the entire area, including you.

As soon as that freezing water splashes on your skin and hits your face, you can’t help but scream in shock, "Aaaah!" That shrill scream of yours probably echoed all over Jackson. "Fuck!" you involuntarily scream again. The water continues to gush, and you shiver, unsure of what to do because there's not a single dry spot left untouched, your bathrobe is soaked.

Helplessly watch the water gush, wondering what to do. Then you hear footsteps behind you, and then your name. "Kat!"

You're stunned when you hear Joel's voice, but thankfully, the bathrobe -even if its dripping- covers you. You turn to him, soaking wet. He stares at you in surprise at first, then, noticing the water, walks over to the water meter and turns it off. Instinctively, you grip the collar of his bathrobe tightly, shivers running through your entire body.

He checks out his shoes, the floorboards creaking under his fee, water splashing around. "Goddamn it, Zach." 

"Exactly," you reply, your lips quivering, your voice cranked up.

Joel, noticing your condition, moves closer. "You shouldn't be standin' there soaked wet, you'll catch a chill."

The tone of concern in his voice is beautiful. If you didn't feel like you were freezing, you might smile, but your lips twitch. Joel wraps one arm around your soaked bathrobe. "C'mere, lemme help you."

As he climbs up, he holds your right hand with one hand and places the other on your back for support. He glances at your wet, shivering form and smiles.

Yes, maybe it's a crime that he likes you this way, but he can't help it.

He thinks you're so beautiful like this.

Joel escorts you to your room, and your eyes meet as he slowly removes his hand from your back. "Thanks, I'll put on something dry," you mutter.

As he nods and steps out of the room, his eyes catch the sight of the underwear you left on the bed. It's an ordinary detail, nothing particularly alluring, but it manages to leave an impression on him. He mutters a silent curse as he shuts the door behind him. He lets out a subtle sigh and shuts the door, his mind racing with thoughts he isn’t exactly proud of. He tries to brush them off by covering his face with his hand and shutting his eyes, but they just won’t budge.

When you swing the door open and see him by the window, arms crossed and looking tense for some reason, you say, "Those are the last clean clothes I've got. I might hit that store tomorrow to make a trade."

He loosens his arms, lowering them to his waist before striking his usual pose. "Yeah, right," he replies. A shiver runs through you as you rub your hair dry with the towel, and Joel, noticing your reaction, steps closer. "Lemme," he offers, catching you off guard.

As he gently towel-dries your hair, another shiver escapes you. "You really that cold?" he asks, concern lacing his voice.

"It's the anemia," you say, shivering a bit. "I’ve dealt with this before. Chills and being soaked make it all worse," you add, your teeth chattering. You hug yourself, trying to get warm, and Joel notices. He lets out a sigh and opens his arms, pulling you in. Before you know it, you're pressed against his chest, your head tucked under his chin, hearing his heartbeat right there. One hand is moving on your back while the other lightly brushes your arm, trying to warm you up. And it actually works straight away.

"Oh, you’re warm," you murmur, sinking in closer. Tentatively but excited, you wrap your arms around him.

Wow.

Holy shit.

It feels amazing, like you’ve always been meant to be there, in his arms.

Just beautiful.

"Y'feel warmer now?" he asks after a few nice minutes, strokes your arm up and down.

You nod without lifting your head from his chest, closing your eyes. "Yeah, but… Joel… can we just stay like this a little longer?"

How reckless, Joel thinks.

You were testing his limits in the sweetest -yet dangerous- way.

Your voice flows over him like silk, sending shivers down his spine at the sound of his name on your lips. The eagerness in your tone, gently urging him to respond, makes his jaw tighten so much that he can almost feel it protest. There’s no way this is real; he’s holding you in his arms right now, just like in the daydreams that fill his mind. It has to be a fantasy—he’s convinced of it.

Until your soft fingers brush against his cheek.

He holds his breath, the warmth of your touch igniting an unexpected thrill as your thumb glides over his temple, tracing the rough contour of his scar. He’s astonished, caught off guard by how effortlessly you explore him, completely unaware of his situation.

At that, the tension in the air shifts.

You can feel that change in his breathing—it's unsteady now—his heart races beneath your palm.

His eyes lock onto yours, the yellow light from the bulb casts a warm glow across your face, enhancing the tone of your skin while flickering in the gem-like depths of your eyes.

It feels so vibrant, so vivid, so pure.

The pale hue of your skin takes on a slight blush now, revealing your warmth and a hint of embarrassment as you meet his brown eyes.

He still can’t find the words to say.

“I—I’m sorry,” you murmur, immediately pulling away as you attempt to rearrange his arms. “I thought… Oh, shit, I’m really terrible at this.”

That’s the last straw for his composure.

In less than a heartbeat, his arms are around you again. A gasp escapes your lips as he presses himself against you, this time not to warm you but to draw you in closer and to clash his lips maddeningly against yours.

At first you can't react, the exhilarating sensation of your first kiss sweeps over you like a tidal wave, leaving your heart racing. Then in response, you instinctively weave one arm around his neck, fingers tangling with the curls of his hair, while your other hand settles on his shoulder, anchoring yourself to accumulate yourself under his weight.

Keeps kissing you with an intensity that feels desperate, like a drowning man, finds a wonderful way of having you open up to him -his tongue makes a path over and around your mouth, presses between your lips, parting them demandingly- you let out an involuntary gasp that cause you to open your mouth for him. His tongue met with yours frenetically, passionately entangling itself with yours on a mad dash to get what he never could before. Body reacting to his powerful energy, it caved in so sweetly -all you can do is follow his lead and let him take what you have. He begins to explore the depths of your mouth and it feels like; finally.

He eats you whole through that kiss, mouths clashing in beautiful synchronization, enjoying the hunger finally released upon the other. It had you wondering why you'd held back from him to begin with. 

And his taste…

Fuck, he tastes better than he smells.

There's a touch of sweetness and a fruity flavor, and the notes that linger in the background are mysterious yet undeniably masculine, leaving you humming softly, and his response—a soft groan—becomes the most beautiful sound you've ever heard, giving you chills, making you forget how to breathe.

As you struggle to catch your breath, his kiss deepens, and his mustache brushes gently against your cheek which is undeniably delightful. You find yourself melting into him more and more, like a candle drawn irresistibly to a flame. Closing your eyes completely, you surrender, find it astonishing how effortless it all seems.

Breathtaking…

Fucking enchanting.

One that leaves you in wonder, realizing you had no idea such a feeling was possible.

Jesus.

You can hardly believe how much you've been missing all this time.

Everything feels so beautiful, dizzying, and electrifying until Joel's large hand, resting on your waist, draws you even closer, leaving no space between you two. His other hand slips beneath the hem of your shirt, caressing your sides, your stomach, and then moving above your bra. You grasp his intentions, feeling both thrilled and panicked.

Reluctantly, you pause to break the kiss.

He must have misinterpreted your pulling away from the kiss, as his hot lips trail down your neck and softly caress your shoulder. With both hands, he makes a move to lift your shirt. You summon all your strength to grasp his arms, suddenly aware of how strong his biceps feel against your grip, but you have to make him stop so you let out a small gasp of protest.

“Joel!” you squeal softly, still panting heavily, you feel your underwear cling to your dripping wet heat, knowing your panties are ruined by now but it is your last concern right now. “Please stop,” you plead.

Intoxicated by your scent and lost in the sensations of your skin, Joel suddenly halts as he catches the worry and pleading in your voice. He leans his head back, breathing hard, trying to catch your eye. His warm breath brushes over your face, and you struggle to maintain a straight expression, unable to muster the courage to look him in the eye.

"Fuck," he gasps, his breath uneven. "I didn't even.... Y'never..." He releases you, propping one hand against the wall behind you, tilting his head as he looks down stares at your chest. You want to pour your heart out, but the words elude you.

"I-I... What I'm trying to say is... I don’t want you to get the wrong idea—”

Joel shakes his head, exhales deeply, then turns away. "No. My bad. I shouldn’t have..." he sighs again. "'M sorry."

For some reason, his apology stings, hurts so bad.

There’s so much you want to say, yet your options feel limited. You just want to express your feelings, gathering the courage to approach him. "Joel, I... actually..."

"Joel! Kat!"

Both of you jump at Tommy’s loud voice, and Joel glances back at you one last time before heading toward the stairs.

You stand there, feeling a twinge of guilt for having disrupted everything, yet you know it's not entirely your fault. The bite marks are not just one, but two, and even if you tried to explain, you can't predict how he might react. You may be fearless in many ways, but the thought of his reaction terrifies you—perhaps the only thing in the world that does.

His troubled expression makes your heart ache, then you shake your head before following him down the stairs.

Tommy steps on the wet floor below, a look of confusion crossing his face as he glances first at Joel and then at you, still coming down the stairs.

"Tommy?"

"Oh, shit, what the fuck?" Ellie’s voice follows close behind, wincing at the water soaking her Converse. She glares at Joel. "I told you, Zach doesn't know shit about plumbing."

Joel rolls his eyes. "Right, appreciate the tip smart-ass."

"Your door was wide open, so I noticed Kat's was swingin' too. Figured you'd be here," Tommy adds still eyeing the floor.

"He musta come running at Kat's loud yell. Seems like your ear sometimes workin' just fine, huh, Joel?" Ellie grins, and you cross your arms, embarrassed by what just unfolded.

Tommy turns to her, flashes a slight smile, then looks back at Joel, who’s acting grumpy. "Well, shoot... the reason I’m here," he sighs. "We gotta talk. 'S kinda urgent," he says pointedly, keeping his eyes on Joel while raising his eyebrows at Ellie without actually looking over at her.

Joel nods and turns to you. "Y'can’t stay here. These floors are as old as dirt, and once the water's gone, mold's fixin' to move in."

"Said Joel Miller aka Mr. Flooring Expert," Ellie jokes, walking over to you and taking your arm.

"What are you doing?"

"He's got a point. No way you're sticking around here when your floor's basically as safe as the Titanic's deck."

"Good call, Ellie," Tommy nods, grinning at you both. "Just crash at Joel's till we figure this out," he says, glancing your way.

As Ellie pulls you out of the house, you glance back at Joel. He looks at you uncertainly before turning to his brother. Tommy waits until you and Ellie are out of earshot, Joel seeming a bit nervous in the lingering silence about you staying at his house.

"Ain't no better spot fer her than your place," Tommy says, looking uneasy.

Joel narrows his eyes, knowing his brother all too well. "Tommy, spill it. What's eatin' ya?"

Frustrated, Tommy reaches into his back pocket, pulls out a piece of paper, and hands it to Joel.

Joel tightens up when he sees the handwriting—it’s the same as the note someone shoved under your door.

He scans it, his expression hardening.

"Tommy Miller. I know what you’ve done for the Fireflies. Remember that Fedra general you let choke on his own blood? Yes you do. If you give a damn about your town and pregnant wife, bring the new girl to me. Friday at sunset. Old church in Soda Springs, Caribou County."

Joel's eyes darken with rage as he looks up at Tommy. "Same assholes who threatened Kat. Fedra?"

“Or what's left of it, I reckon," Tommy replies, bowing his head and studying the puddle on the floor. "Joel, this here’s a straight-up threat. They’s puttin’ the whole dang town and my wife in danger. We gotta do somethin’."

Joel quickly grasps what his brother means and nods. "They’ve messed with the wrong people. Gotta take 'em all out." He extends his hand toward Tommy places other on his shoulder. "Just like old times, huh, little brother?"

Tommy smiles faintly as he shakes his hand. "Just like old times," he echoes, nodding in agreement.

‘°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°TWO WRONGS, ONE RIGHT°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°’

Stepping into the house, you can’t shake the feeling that something’s off with Tommy. His expression hints that he’s keeping something from Ellie, but for now, it's best to set that thought aside. Maybe you’ll bring it up with Joel when he returns—it’s probably better not to dwell on it right now.

Being back at his place and knowing you might be staying for a while fills you with a mix of nerves and excitement. You’d be ready to share almost everything with Joel, but Tommy's unexpected arrival has thrown you off. Confusion lingers in your mind, leaving you unsure of how to proceed.

“What the heck just went down back there?” Ellie asks as you plop down on the couch.

You lean back and cross your arms. “Honestly, I have no idea. I was just about to hop in the shower when suddenly… the pipes exploded like a damn waterfall. The water was freezing.”

“No fuckin' way,” she says, looking out the window at your place. “You know what? While Joel’s with Tommy, why don’t you hop in our shower? It seems like he’s been in there forever—something’s gotta be up.”

“Tommy didn’t say anything to you, did he?” you ask, just to confirm.

“Nope,” she replies, turning back to you. “So what are you waiting for?  I’m not trying to be mean, but we’ve got hot water.” She points upward, emphasizing her point. "Right upstairs."

You roll your eyes and let out a sigh; the thought of a hot shower is almost irresistible. “Oh, I'm so sold out!”

You go upstairs together, and Ellie shows you to the bathroom. Since your clothes are clean, you leave them on the bathroom cabinet to put on when you get out.

You stay in just your underwear, looking in the mirror, catching a glimpse of your lips. You smile, remembering the kiss. It's strange and nice to be in this private space where Joel is cleaning himself. As you turn on the water, you look around for a towel or a robe—yes, definitely a robe, since Ellie is around—but to your surprise, you can't find one. At the same time, you panic when you hear approaching footsteps and try to put on your pants, which you've taken off on the floor.

"Ugh, I'm such an idiot. The towels were in the laundry." Ellie's voice cuts through the silence as she opens the door.

"Ellie, stop!"

She doesn't.

Steps inside and catches sight of you. You instinctively wrap your arms around yourself, trying to hide. "Brought you another towel..."

At first, Ellie is oblivious to your frantic attempts to cover up. She could have simply left the towel and gone, but your overwhelming fear and anxiety make her hesitate. She stares at you, her gaze is not one of curiosity but of concern. Some of the scars on your body catch her attention, but one mark stops her dead in her tracks.

Then, the moment you dread most arrives.

Ellie spots the bite mark just above your right breast. It looks just like the one on her arm, but she can tell this one is older. Stunned, she drops the towel she was holding, her lips parting in disbelief. She raises a finger, pointing at you. "W-what the... The fuck?"

You shut your eyes tight, cursing yourself silently. When you look back,  find her gaze is fixated on your chest. "Ellie… I... can explain."

Tears well up in her eyes, and she doesn’t even fully understand why she’s so shaken. "You... I..." Hands on her hips, she lets out a laugh that’s half disbelief, half desperation. Wiping her tears away, she stands there as the water keeps flowing from the tap, but that’s the least of your worries now. Then Ellie asks the question you've always dreaded. "Kat... Are you... fucking immune?"

 

Chapter 5: The Man Who Speaks With His Eyes

“Oh my God.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“How the hell’s that possible?”
“Was that girl immune?”
“Did you hear she was immune?”
“Could there be hope?”
“There’s finally a cure!”
“Maybe God hasn’t abandoned us after all!”

The voices still echo—words from faces that are long gone, names you can’t even remember anymore.
For years they’ve haunted you, whispering in the back of your mind.
The reason you’ve been running.
But running only works for so long.

It’s like something out of one of those books you used to read: “No matter how far you go, you can’t escape your past… or your own head.”
Turns out that’s the damn truth.
And here you are—cornered.

Ellie’s the one who finds out.
Her reaction is both exactly what you expected… and nothing like it at all.

Her eyes go wide when she sees the mark.

But it isn’t fear. It isn’t disgust.

Tears spill down her cheeks, and those can’t be faked.

Not from her.

You should be careful—she’s not stupid. Fooling her would be a mistake.
Ellie’s fingers brush the mark on your skin. Then notice the bite on your upper arm as well. There’s no escaping this; what’s done is done. Perhaps it’s good to share the burden with her; maybe she can open up to you, too.

Yet, pretending that you’re unaware feels like the safer route; after all, she’s still just a kid.

The silence grows heavier, only broken by the steady rush of water nearby. Finally, you look back at her.
“I know this is insane… shit.” You stare at the floor. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

Ellie doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she just stares. Then, finally—
“…Shit. You got more than one?”

“Five,” you admit quietly. You show them, one by one. Thigh. Chest. Arm. Ankle. Palm. “Cut these two on purpose,” you mutter, showing your palm and ankle.

Her hands cradle yours as she examines the scar. “Fuck…”

“I guess my big secret’s out.”

Ellie surprises you. “You idiot,” she snaps. “You shoulda been more careful.”

Before you can respond, she yanks up her sleeve so fast it almost like she’s been waiting forever for this moment.

There it is—her bite mark. The one you’ve guessed about but never seen with your own eyes. “…You too?”

She nods. “There’s two. Same arm. Few months apart.”

You trace them lightly. “And neither—”

“Nothing,” she cuts in. “No fever. No turning. Just scars. They don’t mean shit. Except they do. They mean I’m… different. Alone.”

“Hey.” Your voice softens as your eyes lock. “You’re not alone, Ellie. Not anymore.”

She feels the honesty behind it; you both bear the same curse and share the same 'miracle.' Her expression softens. “Yeah, I guess not.”

For the first time in a long time, something like hope flickers inside you.

Later, on the porch, -after your shower- you share Ava’s cookies. Ellie picks out the chocolate chips one by one, and you let her. She talks, spilling stories about Joel, Salt Lake, and everything in between. But the way she talks makes it obvious—Joel never told her the truth.

You can’t tell her either. You won’t.

So instead, you laugh with her. About cookies. About stupid things. About nothing and everything.
Until Joel shows up…

Ellie chuckles, her mouth full, sarcastic. "Okay, these are so good I'm starting to think Ava's trying to poison us. Death by chocolate chip."

"Wouldn't be the worst way to go," you say, your mouth also full, and you laugh.

He catches the sound of your laughter before he even steps onto the porch. His face is tired, guarded—but when his eyes flick to you, there’s something else there.

“What’re you two schemin’ ‘bout?”

Ellie quickly replies, “Space stuff. Or, uh… Savage Starlight. She’s a rookie.”

“Yeah. She’s giving me a crash course,” you say with a smile directed at Joel.

“At this time of night?” Joel asks, his eyes flicking to you as he approaches the porch.

You sneeze suddenly. “Damn. July night and I’m still cold.”

Joel’s gaze sharpens. “Not that I was listenin’, but I heard the word burden. What’s that about?”

Ellie points at you, grinning. “She’s planning her dramatic comeback. Says she’ll do fine upstairs.”

“Exactly,” you say, shrugging. “My room's upstairs; the water didn’t reach it. I’ll just head back. I don’t want to be a burden,” you explain. “No need to babysit me.”

Joel’s expression hardens instantly. “No.” He shakes his head. “You’re stayin’ here. Ain’t safe.”

Your brows shoot up. “…Safe? What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

Joel doesn’t answer right away. His jaw tightens, eyes dark. “Means what I said.” He turns, stepping off the porch, then stops long enough to throw the words back over his shoulder.

“You’re stayin’ here.’S it.”

The screen door slams shut behind him.

The rest of the night at Joel’s house is full of firsts.

Ellie is the first to fall asleep. Before she drifts off in her room, she pulls out her diary and, with her usual messy handwriting, starts scribbling. She sketches out something that vaguely resembles your face, smudged lines and all, and then presses the pen down hard beneath it.

still can’t believe it. there’s someone else like me. all this time I thought Joel was just makin’ it up. but it’s real. I’m not alone anymore. Kat’s… she’s good. more than a friend. feels like a sister. I don’t think she even realizes it, but I do. and I hope her and Joel figure their shit out. they’re both so damn stubborn.

She pauses, tapping the end of her pen against the paper. Then, with a mischievous grin, she scrawls another line beneath it:

if they don’t, I swear I’m shovin’ my big old man in the ass. come on, Joel. you love her. say it already.

The words make her snort softly, but she quickly scratches a thick line through them, shutting the notebook as if to bury the thought before it gets too real. She rolls onto her side, pulls the blanket up, and closes her eyes. Sleep takes her fast.

Downstairs, you’re stretched out on Joel’s couch, the smell of old leather and faint woodsmoke in the room. Sleep doesn’t come so easily for you. Your mind replays everything—Ellie seeing your secret, the look in her eyes, the conversations that followed. Then Joel: the kiss, the way his mouth tasted like whiskey and regret, the words he said after. His command to stay here, in this house.

Part of you resents being ordered around. Another part—the part that knows he’s right—feels strangely safe, wrapped up in the very stubbornness that frustrates you.

You shift back onto the seat of the couch. The thin sheet Ellie tucked over you is barely enough; your damp hair makes the chill worse, and a small sneeze escapes. But exhaustion pulls heavier than discomfort. Your eyelids sink. You surrender.

Upstairs, Joel’s world is no quieter. He lies in his bed, eyes open to the ceiling beams, replaying every word with Tommy, every silence with you, every second of that kiss. For a man who can sleep through gunfire, tonight feels like a war he can’t close his eyes to.

The cot creaks under his weight as he shifts for what feels like the hundredth time. Sleep won’t come.

Not even close.

Every time he shuts his eyes, he feels it again—your lips, soft, sweet and hesitant against his.

He lets out a low curse and drags a hand down his face.

Shouldn’t have done that.

Goddamn fool.

He rolls onto his side, then his back, then his stomach, each movement sharper, more frustrated. The blankets twist around his legs like chains.

She’s young in th’ ways that matter. She don’t know what she’s walkin’ inta with me. All th’ shit I done… all th’ things I ain’t proud of. Hell, if she knew half of it, she sure as hell wouldn’t’ve kissed me none.

His chest tightens. He still sees the look in your eyes afterward—uncertain but trusting. Like you believe there’s somethin’ in him worth holding onto.

Trust. Hope. Jesus… she lays that on me like I ain’t already proven I’ll bust it t’ pieces.

He turns again, fists clenching at the sheets. The memory of your trembling breath against his mouth makes him ache in a way that scares him. Makes him want more, when he knows better.

Oughta keep my distance. For her sake. For mine. But—

The thought cuts off with a sharp exhale. The truth he can’t spit out, not even to himself, is that he wants you. Wants your closeness, your warmth, that fragile kind of belief he thought the world had burned outta him.

He remembers Ellie's happy face when she looks at you, and you both laugh, still echoing in his head.

An’ she’s sittin’ out there, makin’ Ellie feel less alone. Probably th’ first damn soul t’ ever really get her. If I screw this up, if I hurt her… I’ll be hurtin’ Ellie too. An’ you ain’t got no fuckin’ right t’ let that happen, Joel.

Once again, as if to mock him, to taunt him, the memory of the kiss floods back uninvited—your hesitant breath, the way you didn’t pull away when he tasted you, he feeling of your fingers tangled in his curls -which made him ache with desire-, the sweetness of you lingering on his lips, and the weight of his guilt pressing down more heavily than ever.

No. No. No.

She deserves better.

Someone younger. Someone… clean.

Not me.

Not me.

Not this sorry sonofabitch.

Hands stained. Blood don’t wash off.

Goddamn fool… thinkin’ she could ever want me.

He shuts his eyes, repeating it like a prayer—trying to bury the memory of her lips, the way it made him feel alive for the first time in years.

Fuckin’ idiot.

Just forget it.

But he just can’t.

And it’s that want, more than the ghosts or the guilt, that keeps Joel Miller staring at the ceiling till morning.

…or till he hears your sneeze… twice.

Joel freezes, eyes narrowing in the dark. On a summer night this warm, nobody should be sneezing. For a second he thinks maybe he imagined it. But no—there it is again, faint, drifting up from downstairs.

Dammit.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed, feet hitting the floorboards. No boots—Jackson’s the only place he lets himself take ’em off. Moving quiet. The stairs creak under his weight, and he winces, muttering a curse under his breath. He pads down the staircase, moving as soft as a man his size can.

You there on the couch, curled, wrapped in a light sheet. Right now, -to him- you look so small and delicate, totally different from your usual tough-girl vibe and strong survivor act. It’s hard to believe you've made it on your own out there for all those years.

Your hair is damp, sticking in dark strands against your temple. You must’ve washed it before bed. He remembers how long you and Ellie hung out on the porch.

He figures you were probably too worn out to dry off properly and definitely too stubborn to ask for help.

Now you shiver, even with summer heat clinging thick to the air.

Joel’s chest tightens. He remembers your voice from before, quiet, almost embarrassed: anemia. Explains why you chill easy.

Joel exhales, heavy, and crouches beside you.

For a long moment he doesn’t touch, doesn’t dare. Just watches the rise and fall of your chest, steady, even. Then—soft, careful—his knuckles graze through the wet strands, brushing them back. His fingers tremble like they’re not his own.

You don’t stir. Doesn’t even sigh.

But he does.

A deep, heavy sigh escapes him.

He watches your figure on the couch, back turned to him, the crickets’ song fading into the still darkness of the night.

And in that quiet, his mind drifts back to a few hours ago.

To the moment Tommy didn’t just ask about the threat note, but insisted Joel come with him.

On the way to the stables, Tommy had told him about the folks, patrol members who had gone into the abandoned galena mine south of Death Canyon, just a few miles from Jackson. They had returned—horrified, spore-laden, shaken—and showed Joel one of the bodies.

Joel had seen countless infected corpses.

Thousands.

All covered in fungus.

But this one… was different.

Its skin was pale and cracked, veins visible in a sickly green-gray. White threads hung from its chin, reaching down to its chest. Its empty eye sockets were filled with spongy, gray fungal tissue, as if the transformation had begun from inhaling spores alone, not a bite. A bullet scar marked its head. One of the patrolmen had shot it in fear.

Later, Tommy had taken Joel to Eugene. Joel didn’t know Eugene well, but respected him—Tommy had called him knowledgeable many times. Eugene and his small team were already working on protecting themselves from spores, uncertain whether ordinary gas masks would suffice. They went to the council building at midnight, quiet and private, just the three of them.

When Tommy showed Eugene the note, worry etched across his face was understandable—like Tommy, he had family in Jackson he wanted to protect.

Joel understood that.

What he couldn’t understand, couldn’t accept, was what Eugene said next: "All I'm sayin' is—we don't know her. She shows up, trouble follows. You wanna risk Jackson over some woman you barely met?"

When Joel shoots him a serious, threatening look, Tommy jumps in, raising his hands—one toward Joel and the other toward Eugene.

"Nobody's accusin' her outright. But folks'll get spooked. They gonna wanna know where we stand."

“Where I stand is goddamn clear,” Joel says in a low, stony voice.

Eugene is nervous but insistent, “Sometimes the greater good—”

Joel's voice explodes with hoarse anger, "Don't you dare talk t'me 'bout the greater good! She ain't some trade, ain't some bargaining chip—she's—"

Mine.

He wanted to say that.

The word catch in his throat.

He can’t bring himself to say it.

"Trouble's already here. Don't pin it on her..." he continues with mutter.

And that’s how the convo wraps up, with plans to chat again later. But come on, these three guys aren’t dumb. They’re not just gonna meet up on Friday just because some note says, "Let's meet on Friday."

Hell no.

First, they've got to track down who’s been stirring the pot in town.

Before they head out, Tommy just has to give Joel a hard time, since he's been in this situation before and can totally see the protectiveness on his face. "Ain't seen you like that in a long time, old timer."

Joel croaks, "He's talkin' like he's fixin' to hand her over like she's some kinda trade bait..."

Tommy shakes his head, looks intently at Joel, “Ain’t just ‘bout watchin’ out for her, is it? I seen th’ way y’look at her. It’s different. First time I ever seen ya… care like that since—”

he pauses, swallowing hard so as not to imply Sarah...

"…since forever, really."

Joel is silent. He clenches his jaw, looks away.

This silence is the answer.

“Y’ain’t gotta say nothin’. I know ya. You finally let someone in. An’ I get it, Joel… I do. But—” he pauses, his voice tremblin’. “…that goddamn note, brother. They ain’t just threatenin’ her. They threatenin’ Maria, Ellie. This whole town. If they come knockin’, it ain’t just you payin’ th’ price.”

Joel stares down at the floor, says real quiet, "I know it. Don't reckon I ain't been thinkin' on it.”

Suddenly you mumble in your sleep, and Joel stiffens, uneasy.

Afraid of being caught watching you.

But it’s just a soft murmur, a restless shift. He leans closer, eyes fixed on your face, and lets out another long, heavy sigh.

His jaw tightens, then relaxes, caught between frustration and something softer. “Dammit… ain’t been here a week, an’ you already—”

He pauses, struggling to steady himself. A tired, small smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “How th’ hell you get under m’ skin this fast? …You’re a damn weakness, girl.” Almost without thinking, he reaches out to touch your hair, drawn in by an invisible force, as if you were a magnet and he was made of iron.

But just as he’s about to, you roll over onto your back.

He gazes at your serene face for a moment, taking in your lips, eyelashes, nose, and cheeks. His small smile now tinged with sorrow.

Something unspoken. Raw.

“…Can’t lose you, darlin’.”

‘°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°TWO WRONGS, ONE RIGHT°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°’

Thursday.

You wake to the clatter of dishes, the scrape of forks, and the smell of something that makes your stomach growl before you’re even fully awake. You stretch, blinking groggily—only to realize you’re wrapped up in a…. quilt.

Wait.

A quilt?
When the hell did that happen?

You’re sure you fell asleep under nothing but a thin sheet.

“What the…?” you mumble, pushing yourself upright.

“…Well, don’t you look cozy.”

You snap your head toward the doorway. Ellie leans against the frame, arms crossed, one eyebrow arched, smirking. “Didn’t know the couch came with a deluxe bedding service.”

You scowl at her, heat creeping into your cheeks. And of course, right then Joel appears from the kitchen, glancing over.

“Breakfast’s on the counter,” he says flatly, -he must’ve picked up from the dining hall earlier- though his eyes linger a beat too long on the quilt around your shoulders. "What’re you two whisperin’ about?”

Ellie doesn’t miss it. She tilts her head, all faux innocence. “Nothin’, Joel. Just admirin’ how thoughtful you are. Quilts, breakfast… whole damn package deal.”

Joel rolls his eyes, muttering as he sets down a plate. “Best use that smart mouth to eat ‘fore it gets cold.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Ellie hums mockingly, lips pursed, as you tug the quilt tighter and shuffle off the couch. Truth is, you’re glad he bothered—because you remember shivering half the night.

“Ohhh shit,” Ellie teases, voice low but sharp as a knife. “You’re blushin’. Quilt smells like him, doesn’t it?”

“Shut up,” you hiss, glaring. She just snickers and wanders into the kitchen.

You gather your hair back, attempt to fold the quilt neatly—fail—and finally give up.

Ellie snorts. “Leave it. Joel’s the one in charge of housekeeping anyway.”

You shoot her a look and take a seat at the table. Joel grumbles, pouring himself a glass of orange juice. “What, ya think this is some kinda five-star hotel or somethin’?” he mutters, taking a sip.

Ellie digs in, mouth full as she smirks. “Dude, you gave her your own quilt. That’s, like, concierge-level service.”

You open your mouth to thank him, but Joel cuts you off with a gruff sigh. “Couldn’t sleep last night. Your damn sneezin’ kept me up.” His eyes flick to you, sharp. “Survived clickers, stalkers, raiders—but a little cold’s what does ya in, huh?”

You bristle. “Hey! I told you—I’m anemic. Not my fault.”

Joel just shakes his head. “"Then ya best be takin' your pills, girl. Ya hear? Take good care of yourself.” His voice hardens as he jerks a thumb at Ellie. “And you—kid—don’t know when to keep your mouth shut.”

Ellie raises her hands in mock surrender, but Joel’s already heading for the door. It slams behind him as he mutters, “Damn kid…”

You grip your fork so tight your knuckles ache. “Asshole,” you growl under your breath.

Ellie doesn’t even look up from her plate. “Don’t worry. He does this with people he actually cares ‘bout. The grumpier he gets, the softer he is inside.”

You sigh, stabbing at your eggs. “Guess I’ll have to get used to his mood swings.”

Out on the porch, Joel lingers, hands braced on the railing. The early sun paints the fields gold, birdsong cutting through the quiet. He rubs at his jaw, tension still sitting heavy in his chest. He didn’t mean to snap—not at you. Hell, not when he’d spent half the night makin’ sure you were comfortable.

He blows out a long breath, like it might chase away the guilt clawing at him. But when his eyes lift toward the horizon, his face hardens again, the softness buried under that stone-cold mask he always wears.

After breakfast, you and Ellie take a relaxed stroll to the town square, chatting about trading for some new clothes and what your job in Jackson might be. She’s super excited about getting you the same duties she has, but you just laugh and say, “Hell no, thanks." After a chuckle, she heads off to herd sheep, and you decide to head to the stables to apply for a spot on the patrol team.

As you wander through Jackson Ranch, you realize you still have a bit of a walk ahead of you. Sunlight spilling across the old storefronts that had been patched into something resembling normalcy.

The air smells faintly of hay, woodsmoke, and fresh bread.

Almost too normal.

A bulletin board catches your eye.

Notices flutter in the breeze:

Stable hand wanted. Errands to the orchard. Kitchen shifts.

You skim each one, but none of it feels right. You want something more — something that matters.

As you’re about to leave, a pair of teenage girls burst through the crowd, giggling as they slap a new poster onto the board. When they’re gone, curiosity pulls you closer.

Jackson Summer Hoe-Down

Grab your boots and join us for a night of music, food, and dancing!  

Jackson Community Barn  

Saturday, July 7th – Sundown 'til Midnight  

Live Fiddle & Banjo – The Jackson Band  

Home-cooked food and plenty of pie  

Square Dance • Line Dance • Good Times  

Everyone welcome. Bring a dish if you can.  

Patrol shifts remain in place during the event.

 

Dancing. Music. Pie.

Your chest tightens with a laugh that never quite makes it out. Years have slipped by filled with running, surviving, evading monsters… and meanwhile here, people were stringing up fiddles and dancing under barn rafters.

Lucky bastards.

You shake your head, push the thought down, and head for the stables. Maybe patrol sign-ups. Something useful. Something that isn’t waiting.

Inside, the smell of hay and horse musk fills your lungs. A stablehand shrugs when you ask. “Talk to Maria or Tommy.”

Maria’s name gives you pause — Ava mentioned she was in her final weeks, exhausted. You’re not about to bother a pregnant woman. So you head to the community hall instead.

Two men guard the door, shoulders stiff as fence posts. They eye you the way people eye an outsider.

Nervous. Distrustful.

“Tommy ain’t here,” one says flatly.

You scowl, grab a pen, and scribble your name onto a duty roster anyway. That’ll show them.

Then the doors swing open, and Jesse steps out. His smile is easy, but there’s something twitchy beneath it. “Kat,” he says, glancing at the list you just signed. “They’re not takin’ anyone new this week.”

Your frown deepens. “Weird. Tommy told me I could join whenever.”

“Council’s decision. Not just his. You’re still new.”

You fold your arms. “I went out before.”

“Searchin’ for your dog,” he reminds you gently. “That ain’t patrol. Tommy and Maria bent the rules. Joel was with you.”

You bite down on the inside of your cheek. “So if Joel comes again, does that mean I get in?”

Jesse exhales hard, rubbing the back of his neck. “Pretty sure Joel wouldn’t go for it either.”

“Why not?”

Before he can answer, you hear the sound of boots on gravel. Joel and Tommy walk up, broad shadows cutting through the sunlight.

“Why don’t you ask him?” Jesse mutters, relief flickering across his face.

Joel’s frown is carved deep. Tommy’s smile is warm, but his eyes shift, calculating.

"Well howdy, Kat," Tommy greets warmly, “What brings you here?”

You straighten your shoulders, avoiding Joel's gaze. “I’m tired of sitting on my ass. I want to help. You said I could join patrol.”

Tommy’s smile falters. Joel doesn’t even let him answer. “Ain’t happenin’.”

The words land like a slap. Your jaw sets. “I asked your brother, not you.”

Joel narrows his eyes. The weight of his stare pins you to the spot. Tommy steps in, careful. “We’re grateful, Kat. Really. But Joel’s right. Not now. There’s other work 'f you want it.”

“Kitchen’s lookin’ for help,” Jesse offers quickly.

Joel plants a hand on his hip, smirks a bit, "She oughta be watchin' them mules. Suits her. Kat 'n' mules, two peas in a pod. Both just as damn stubborn.”

You gave him a glare. “…Really?”

He shrugs, “Could be worse. Least mules work hard.”

“Yeah? Maybe I’ll kick like one too.”

Joel folds his arms, stifling a laugh. Tommy and Jesse exchange a weird look. Heat crawls up your neck, but you cross your arms tightly, feeling a bit offended. “Funny. Real funny. But I'm damn serious guys. You know, I knew Stalkers before any of you even realized what you were dealing with. I’ve faced worse than half your patrol’s ever seen. I can shoot, I can track. If you don’t believe it, test me. I’ve survived more out there than most people in this town could imagine.”

The silence that follows feels heavy.

Tommy’s lips press thin, Jesse shifts his weight — but Joel’s the one who reacts. He steps closer, shadow falling over you, eyes dark, voice cold:

“Congratulations.”

Then he yanks the hall door open, shoulders stiff, and disappears inside.

Tommy lingers just long enough to give you a look — something between pity and apology. “Sorry, Kat,” he says softly, and follows his brother in.

The door slams shut, and you’re left blinking in the dust.

Inside, your chest burns.

Anger, humiliation, a sting you’d never let them see.

You feel small, hurt, especially since the one who caused this pain is him...

“Look,” Jesse says, breaking the silence. His tone is gentler now, like he can see through you. “If you really wanna pitch in… take kennel duty. Dogs’ll love you. You’ll see Taxi every day. Tell Mike I sent you.”

You let out a sharp breath, arms still folded, but your voice is quieter. “…Fine. Thanks.”

You spin on your heel before he can see your face — before he can see the reluctant smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.

At least he's thoughtful.

The heavy wooden door opens, Jesse walks in, and shuts after him.

Your footsteps fade outside.

Silence hangs for a moment inside the hall. Joel lingers by the doorway, jaw tight. Tommy exchanges a look with Jesse, who shifts uncomfortably.

"That didn’t feel right…" He lock his eyes with Joel. "She looked—humiliated."

Joel glares at him. “Ya think I fuckin’ wanted it that way? Ain’t got th’ luxury t’ be gentle, kid. Not now.

Tommy folds his arms, speaking calmly but firm.

“He’s right. Spores spreadin’ closer every goddamn week. Council’s already on edge. Put her out there now, with all that heat on us? Hell no.”

"I get it, but—she just wants to belong here. She’s been tryin’ since day one."

Joel sighes, voice low and heavy. "She belongs. More’n she knows. That’s the goddamn problem."

Tommy watches his brother, reading between the lines. A flicker of concern passes over his face. Jesse taken aback to see Joel showing concern for another girl, much like he did for Ellie, but he quickly compose himself.

"I’ll keep her busy at the kennels. Safer that way. She’ll see her dog, stay outta trouble," Jesse says and heads back outside.

Joel nods once, curt, but his eyes betray the weight he’s carrying. He looks back at the door Jesse left through. His voice is almost a growl, but softer than before. "Safer’s all that matters. Even if she hates me for it."

“You’re protectin’ her so hard you’re just hurtin’ her instead.”

Joel looks away, Tommy steps closer, his tone softer but pointed.

“Jesus Christ, Joel… Instead o’ mutterin’ to yourself, maybe you oughta talk to her."

Joel’s jaw works, but he doesn’t answer. He turns, striding deeper into the hall. His boots echo heavy against the wood.

"We take care o’ this first."

Tommy mutters under his breath, following after him.

"Yeah. Always "business first." Keep pushin’ her away, see how that works out for ya.”

 

‘°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°TWO WRONGS, ONE RIGHT°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°’

Taxi nearly knocks you flat the second you step inside the kennel, tail smacking against your legs like a whip. You laugh, crouching to scratch behind his ears as he whines, shoving his big head into your chest.

“Missed me, huh? You’re such a drama king,” you murmur, kissing the top of his head.

A cough breaks the moment.

“Uh—hey. Kat.”

You glance up. Zach stands a few feet away, hands stuffed in his pockets, shifting like he’s got ants in his boots.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” you say, rising to your feet. “Or do you come by to apologize to every person whose living room you turn into a swimming pool?”

He winces, cheeks flushing. “Yeah… about that. I'm sorry. That was on me. Didn’t double-check the valve. Real careless. Sorry.”

“Guess I should thank you for the upgrade. Not everyone’s lucky enough to have their own indoor pool.”

Zach huffs out a laugh, embarrassed. "I'm really, really sorry." Then he blurts, “Joel already chewed me out about it. Said if it’d been the hot water line instead of cold, you could’ve been burned bad and I...um-.”

You blink, caught off guard. “…He said that?”

Zach nods quickly. “Yeah. Laid into me pretty hard, actually. Never seen him that pissed. Guess he cares about you more than I realize.”

You cross your arms, not sure how to process that.

Joel, pissed on your behalf?

The thought sends a flicker of warmth through you, no matter how much you try to push it down.

Before you can answer, Zach clears his throat again. “Anyway. What I was really tryin’ to ask—there’s... the... S-Summer Dance. Out by the barn, string lights, music, the whole deal. I thought maybe you’d like to come with me.”

Your eyebrows rise in surprise as you act as if you didn't notice the poster earlier. "The dance?"

“Yeah.” He shrugs, trying to play it cool, though the tips of his ears are bright red. “Figure after everything that’s happened, you deserve somethin’ fun. And I’d… y’know. Like to take you.”

You study him, still petting Taxi absentmindedly. The offer is sweet, honest even—but complicated.

“…I’ll think about it,” you finally say, soft but firm.

Zach nods, clearly relieved you didn’t flat-out reject him. “Fair enough. I’ll, uh… see you around, then.”

As he leaves, Taxi snorts like he doesn’t quite approve, nudging your hand until you scratch him again.

“Did you hear that, boy? Joel apparently tore him apart… over me.”

Taxi huffs, tail giving a lazy thump against the ground.

You shake your head. “I mean—what’s his goddamn problem? One minute he’s covering me with quilts, the next he’s snapping at me like I’m the damn problem. And now he’s threatening to bite Zach’s head off because of a broken pipe?”

Taxi lets out a low whine, nose bumping against your hand until you scratch under his chin.

“You’re no help, you know that? You probably like him more than I do.”

The shepherd’s ears perk up at Joel’s name like he actually understood you.

You groan.

“Traitor,” you mutter, burying your fingers in his fur. “Maybe you can explain him to me, ‘cause I swear I can’t figure him out. He’s—” You pause, swallowing. “He’s infuriating. But then he does something that makes me feel… safe. And I hate that it matters.”

Taxi licks your hand once, decisive, as if casting his vote.

“Yeah. Figures you’d side with him.” You laugh weakly. “So… you hungry?”

Your first day at the kennel is surprisingly chill, almost too chill for comfort.

The other dogs settle in fast, happily gulping down their meals and curling up in their pens. By the time your shift wraps up, your stomach’s growling—definitely time to eat. After saying goodbye to Taxi, you head to the restaurant.

The town is buzzing about Saturday night’s dance party, with everyone chattering away.

But something feels off.

The guys—guards and patrol members—are moving with an unusual edge. They’re scarfing down their food, barely speaking, and their eyes keep darting toward the doors or out onto the street. Some are hanging around outside, pacing or clustered in small groups, whispering just low enough that anyone not really paying attention might miss it.

Even though you’re new here, you can’t help but feel that something strange is going on. Guys are rushing past, whispers slicing through the air, but no one wants to spill what’s really happening. You can’t shake the memory of the folded note that showed up under your door a few nights ago. Is it connected to all this? Or is it a whole different thing? You know that whatever it is, Joel, Tommy, and Jesse are definitely involved somehow.

As you finish your meal, Dina slides into the chair across from you with a warm but slightly jittery smile. “Hi,” she says, fidgeting just a little.

“Hi,” you reply, polite but cautious.

“I can’t find Jesse. He’s not at the town hall. Heard some folks say he was with you."

You nod, thinking over what she said. “Yeah, he helped me get set up at the kennel. He came with me there, but I haven’t seen him since.”

Dina leans back, letting out a deep sigh.

“He didn’t go on patrol either, so I started asking around… Something feels really off,” she says.

You finish your drink, setting your glass down, your eyes wandering back to the street. "Totally agree... Something’s definitely not right. Tommy said I could go on patrol, but now he’s telling me no. Do you think there’s a problem?”

Dina’s expression darkens.

“Wait, he doesn’t want you on patrol? Really strange. Eugene ditched out this morning without waiting for me, which he’s never done before. Ugh… Should’ve seen that comin'.”

You’ve heard of Eugene—the respected inventor—but you’ve never met him.

“I should go talk to Gail,” Dina says, getting up. “Maybe she knows somethin'.”

“Gail?”

“Eugene’s wife. The therapist,” she explains, giving you a reassuring smile. “Catch you later.”

“Later,” you say, watching her walk away, a growing sense of unease settling in as you linger at the table.

 

‘°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°TWO WRONGS, ONE RIGHT°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°’

 

You push open the door to Joel’s place, stepping inside.

The day’s noise—the chatter in the restaurant, Dina’s worried questions, the restless energy around Jackson—still buzzes faintly in your head. Here, though, it’s quieter.

Almost.

A sharp whirring sound cuts through the stillness, rough and steady. At first, you frown, mistaking it for a generator. But no—too close, too rhythmic. Wood against blade. A saw.

You tilt your head, curiosity pricking, and start up the stairs. The steps creak under your weight.

“Ellie?” Joel’s voice comes quick, firm, over the sound of tools being set aside.

You grin despite yourself. “Nope. It’s me.”

A pause, then his boots scrape against the floor. By the time you reach the top, he’s standing there, sleeves rolled up, hands dusted with fine wood shavings. Behind him, the skeleton of a guitar sits propped on the workbench, soft lamplight glinting off its smooth curve.

“Didn’t expect you back this early,” you say, examining him. “I figured you’d be out all night with Tommy, the way you’ve been running around.”

Joel glances back at the guitar, then at you, his jaw shifting. “Yeah, well. Got back sooner’n I thought.”

You cross your arms, studying him. “Huh. Busy man, but not too busy to chew Zach out, I hear.”

His brows furrow. “He told you that?”

“He didn’t have to,” you tease, lifting a brow. “Word travels. Apparently you gave him quite the sermon about burst pipes and—what was it—hot water that could’ve burned me?”

Joel exhales sharply, almost a scoff. “Damn fool wasn’t watchin’ his work. Could’ve been worse’n just a flood.” His voice drops, rougher, almost defensive. “Wasn’t 'bout to let that slide.”

You soften, but press anyway. “So you can yell at Zach for me, but you can’t even look me in the eye half the time? You act like you don’t care, Joel, then you turn around and prove you do. Which one is it?”

His gaze lingers on you then, steady, conflicted. The sawdust in his hair, the roughness in his hands—he looks like a man carrying too much, and still carrying more than he wants to admit.

“You don’t make it easy,” he mutters finally.

Your chest tightens, but you give him a crooked smile, trying to lighten the weight of it. “Well, good thing I’m stubborn then.”

He huffs, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, shaking his head. For a moment, silence fills the space, the unfinished guitar gleaming in the corner like some unspoken promise.

Then he turns around and walks back to his workshop. Curious, you tilt your head to the side, eyes roaming across the scattered tools, the neat little piles of scrap he’d sorted.

“How’s the guitar coming along?” you ask, resting against the doorway.

Joel lifts his head, the edge softening in his eyes. “Body’s just 'bout done. Needs strings now.” He tap the small bundle on the bench. “Those ones we found — I’ll get ’em on here. Might not sound perfect, but it’ll play.”

You cross the room, gaze flicking to the instrument. “So those go here? On the bridge?”

“Mm.” He nods, holding one up. “Takes patience. Can’t rush this part.”

Your finger brush along the frets. The quiet clang of metal filled the air, and if you looked up, you could’ve found Joel watching you.

Not just watching — studying, admiring.

His eyes trace the lines of your face, lingering on your mouth, your dimples when you smiled without realizing. For a long second, he doesn’t move, don’t breathe.

You shift closer, your shoulder brushing near his, and that’s when it hit him — the faintest trace of kennel on you. Dog fur, soap, hay, and that special scent of yours—a mix that something he would’ve thought was gross on anyone else.

But on you?

A whole different story. 

Somehow, it settles in his chest, familiar and comforting, with a sweet undertone. He feel a bit silly for noticing it, let alone actually liking it, so goddamn much.

He lean in instinctively, enough that the distance shrunk, enough that if either of you leaned just a little more—

“What’re the bones for?” you ask absently, nodding to the pale pieces set near the bridge.

Joel don’t answer right away. His eyes and thoughts are locked on you. Don’t even notice the pause until you shift impatiently.

“The bones?” you prompt again.

Joel’s voice low, a little rough. “Saddles. They keep the strings steady.”

Something in his tone makes you glance up. And there he wis — not looking at the guitar, not at the work, but at you. 

For a heartbeat, neither of you move.

Then Joel blinks, jaw tightening, and turned back to the instrument with a sharp exhale.

“Best keep your focus on the craft, not the man holdin’ it,” he mutters.

“Joel,” you sigh. “What’s going on with you?”

His brow creases. “Nothin’.”

You cross your arms, refusing to let it go. “‘Nothin''," you mimick him. "Don’t give me that. One minute you’re colder than winter, the next you’re tucking a quilt over me when I feel cold. You won’t let me join a patrol, but you’ll tear into Zach on my behalf. Which one is it? Am I supposed to keep guessing?”

His muscles tense. He looks down at his hands, dusted with sawdust, like the wood might offer him an answer.

You press on, your voice quieter now, but steadier. “Shit..." You grunt. "You kissed me, Joel. And then you said 'sorry' like I was some kind of mistake.”

His chest rises sharply, but he don’t speak.

“I just…” you falter, searching his face. “If you regret it, fine. But don’t keep acting like you don’t care when you obviously do. You... You act like I’m some burden you don’t wanna deal with. I may not know much about… relationships. I never had one. But I do know it ain’t supposed to feel like this.”

Finally meeting your eyes.

For a heartbeat, his expression cracks—sorrow, frustration, something like longing—but it was gone in an instant, buried under that familiar stone wall.

“You’re right,” he say roughly. “I don’t make sense.” His voice drops, low and tense. “But it’s better this way.”

You frown, anger and confusion burning hot in your chest. “Better for who? Because it sure as hell isn’t better for me.”

Joel swallows hard, looking away, his fingers tightening against the workbench. “Kat…” He hesitates, like there's more he wanted to say—more he couldn’t say. Finally, he shake his head. “The truth is… you’re still young. You should be spendin’ your time laughin’, makin’ friends, not gettin’ tangled up with some ol’ man who’s got more blood on his hands than you’ll ever wanna know.”

You blink at him, stunned for a moment, then scoff. “That’s it? That’s your excuse? My goddamn age?”

He shifts, jaw clenching. “Ain’t an excuse. It’s the truth.”

“Truth?” Your voice cracks, but you don't look away from Joel. “That’s what you think of me? That I’m innocent? Untouched? Maybe I am inexperienced when it comes to… that… But don’t you dare mistake that for untouched. I’ve survived too much to be that.”

His jaw tight again, clearly not expecting the steel in your voice.

“I’m not sunshine, Joel. I don’t throw rainbows outta my pockets. I’ve seen things. I’ve done things. I’m not clean. I’ve seen more than you think. You’re not the only one in this room with blood on your hands.”

He shoots you a glare, then picks up the workbench again. You can feel your frustration boiling over at his dismissive stance. "You treat me like I’m some clueless kid who can’t tell what I want. But maybe..." You take a deep breath, your heart racing, as adrenaline surges through you while you lay it all on the line.

Damn.

You really do feel like you're a goddamn high school girl revealing her first crush.

"...maybe what I want is that ol’ man."

Joel's shoulders stiffen, and he slams the workbench back onto the desk and stands up. When he turns to face you, his eyes flicker with surprise, quickly followed by a fierce anger. "Don't," he says, his voice deep and heartbreakingly determined. "You don't understand what you're askin’ for."

You hold his gaze, fierce and unyielding. "Then make me understand. But don't you dare push me away with half-truths and excuses. If you really don't want me, say it. Look me in the eye and say it.”

Joel’s lips part, but no words come out.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating.

For a moment, you swore you had him—right there, right on the edge of admitting everything.

Then—

“Joel?”

Ellie calls out, and it hits you—goddamn tears are streaming down your face. You sniffle, annoyed, and wipe them away while Joel freezes for a second, stuck between panic and your tear-streaked face—totally unsure of what to do.

You turn and step away.

"Kat?"

You take a deep breath and look at her. “Yeah,” you say, your voice shaking.

“What—Is everything okay?” she asks, eyes going wide when she sees your tears. Then she glances up. “Joel—”

“Upstairs,” you say sharply, slamming the door behind you as you head onto the porch, needing some fresh air and a moment alone.

In Ellie’s room at night.

Joel hurriedly left for Tommy's place, leaving you alone in the house.

The low hum of Nirvana's "Something in the Way" fills the room, the record scratching softly under the needle. You sink to the floor with your sketchbook, your pen hovering over a blank page.

Ellie sits cross-legged, moths scattered across her page. You draw the kennel, the streets of Jackson, with charcoal, then grab another blank sheet and draw casually, focusing on Ellie’s slightly audible pencil strokes, her face tense, like she’s wrestling with the paper. She’d casually mentioned something about the other Kat a few hours ago—maybe it’s better to ask now.

“So… the whole thing with that tattoo girl… I get why it upset you. You didn’t want her touching your arm, and…”

She nod, trying to focus on the sketch, but her hands tremble slightly. “Yeah… I just… I messed up, and we argued. And now… ugh…”

"No one gets you better than I do," you say with a sigh. "Looks like I wasn't the only one having a rough day, huh?" You think about Joel again and the stuff he said, and it hits you hard. Your stomach feels tight, like someone just punched you.

Ellie pauses, looking at you sharply. “Hey… you’re crying.”

“I’m not,” you snap, but a tear escapes anyway, landing on your page and smudging the charcoal.

Ellie smirks. “Uh-huh. Ain’t that a damn tear on the page?”

“I’m not fuckin' crying,” you insist. “My eyes… they just— they leak.”

“Well,” Ellie says, chin resting on her hand, “sounds like the same shit to me.”

You huff, letting the pencil move over the paper, guided more by your emotions than anything else. Kurt’s voice drifts around the room, making the space feel heavy and hollow.

“Ugh,” Ellie leans back, thoughtful. “Sometimes… it’s like this song. You’re here, together, but you can’t really tell anyone what’s going on inside. Feels like… being trapped. It fucking sucks.”

You glance at her, a small grin tugging at your lips despite yourself.

“Thanks, Dr. Ellie.”

Ellie raises an eyebrow, smirking. “Well, if I’m the doctor, then I’ve got a prescription… for us to go dance. Just the two of us, independent and in charge. What do you say?”

You smirk too. “Deal.”

Friday.

It’s a quiet morning in Jackson—quiet on the outside, at least. Birds sing somewhere beyond trees, the air is still, the kind of morning that should feel calm. But inside, silence hangs heavy, brittle and tense.

When you wake, the quilt Joel left folded at the edge of the couch is the first thing you notice. You nudge it with your foot—once, then harder, sending it sliding to the floor. A small, deliberate rebellion.

Joel sees it when he walks in. His eyes flick to the quilt on the floor, then to you.

His jaw works, but he says nothing as usual.

Later that morning, when you step out of the shower wearing a bathrobe, he pauses then deliberately turns his head the other way. Next, when he comes down the hall, you do the same. Then, the two of you meet in the narrow hallway, both shifting left, then right, caught in a ridiculous dance of avoidance.

And still, neither of you says a word.

As Ellie walked by the couch, she noticed everything happening, including the quilt just lying helplessly on the floor.

Breakfast is no less strange. Joel's jaw is set, hard as stone, though his hands are steady as he places a plate in front of you. Juice. Eggs. Jam -your favorite kind and Ellie’s-. Even the small bottle of iron pills -your medicine-—when did he learn about those?

You don’t ask.

You don’t thank him either.

Instead, your eyes do the talking: quick glances, lingering stares, silence filling the gaps. Ellie, sitting across from you, chews slowly, eyes darting back and forth like she’s watching some kind of comedy sketch.

The quiet stretches until Ellie pipes up from the kitchen table, smirking.“Guess the poor quilt lost a fight.”

You and Joel both glance her way at the same time, deadpan. She shrugs, spears another bite of food, and chews like nothing happened.

Another highly entertaining morning at the Miller's.

Joel finishes his breakfast and heads out first, his boots heavy on the porch. You catch sight of him later as you pass by the stables—his rifle slung over his back, joining Tommy for patrol.

Ellie's on kitchen porter duty today, so you head out to the kennel.

By noon, Maria calls for you, and on your way to her place you bump into Ellie again. She flashes a quick, knowing smile before darting off.

At Maria’s, you finally understand what Ellie meant yesterday about “finding clothes.” She wasn’t talking about store—she meant Maria and Ava.

Maria's baby bump has really popped since you last saw her—it's super round and heavy now.

The air smells faintly of fabric and lavender soap. Sunlight filters through the curtains, spilling over piles of neatly folded baby clothes on the table. Tiny shirts, socks no bigger than your thumb, little hats with careful stitches.

Ellie whistles low. “Damn. That’s… a lotta baby stuff.”

Maria laughs softly, one hand resting on her belly. “Well, I’ll be needin’ it any day now.”

“How’re you holdin’ up?” You ask her friendly.

“Couple more weeks, if the little one listens," She replies, smiling tiredly. "Feels like he’s been kickin’ holes in my ribs, though.”

You grin, but something in her eyes makes you pause. She’s watching you too carefully, like she knows more than she says.

“Guess you’ll be happy once it’s over,” Ellie says, sniffing the tiny baby sock and making little walking gestures with her fingers like a baby taking steps. You grab the sock, a smile breaks out on your face at her funny joke, your eyebrows lift in surprise as you hold the tiny sock in your palm, marveling at just how small it is.

Maria chuckles softly. “Happy—and exhausted.”

Next, you step closer to the table, where the baby clothes lie, your fingers brushing over the soft fabric. Every piece looks precise, made with patience. The seams are straight, the stitches so fine you almost forget it’s all been done by hand.

In your head, a thought sparks. This isn’t just someone killin’ time. This is craft. Skill.

Your gaze shifts to Ava. She’s bent over a tiny blue onesie, trimming loose thread with sharp little scissors. The way she handles the fabric—it’s deliberate, almost practiced. You can tell she’s done this a thousand times before.

And suddenly, the scraps of conversation you’ve picked up around Jackson come together. Outbreak or not, Ava wasn’t always just Maria’s sister. She was something else—bigger. A designer. Someone who used to shape how the world looked before the world burned.

No wonder these clothes look store-bought. Hell, better than store-bought.

Ava glances up, catching your stare. There’s the faintest smile tugging at her lips, but her voice is matter-of-fact. “Old habits die hard, I guess.”

You nod, a little stunned. “They look cool.”

Maria beams, reaching over to fold one of the tiny shirts.

“She’s been spoilin’ us. Half the nursery’s filled with her work already.”

Ellie snorts, “Kid’s gonna be better dressed than all of us combined.”

Everyone laughs, but you’re still caught on the image of Ava’s hands—steady, skilled, refusing to let beauty die, even after the world did.

Later, Ava and Maria shares a look, and then Ava get up, grabbing a box from the floor, and put a pile of neatly folded fabric on the table. The colors really popped—bright reds, blues, and even a splash of lace.

“Found these in sealed boxes. Most, I cut down into shirts—folk wear those easier. But these…” she lifts two dresses carefully “…I couldn’t bring myself to butcher. They’re too pretty.”

Everyone looks at her, and then it hits you what she’s talking about—outfits for the dance night .

Maria chuckles from her armchair, rubbing her belly. “Not for me. I’m about to burst. Can’t even see my own feet anymore.”

Ava glares. “And I’m too old to waste fabric on. Who’s gonna be impressed? Chickens?”

Ellie throws her hands up immediately. “Don’t even look at me. Pants, boots, shirt—I’m good. Dresses are a fuckin' death trap.”

All three of them turn at the same time. Their gazes land squarely on you.

You freeze.

“…Why’s everybody starin’ at me like I just volunteered?”

Maria smirks, “Because you’re the only one left.”

Ellie grins wickedly, “Yep. Majority vote. Congratulations.”

You groan, throwing your head back, "Un...fucking...believable. This is some kind of setup.”

Ava smiles, already holding the long-sleeved dress up against you

“Not a setup. A makeover. Trust me, honey, you’ll look gorgeous.”

Ellie bursts into laughter, already picturing it.  “Oh man, someone’s gonna have a heart attack.” 

You catch her implication about who she meant and widen your eyes at the thought—the very thought of Joel seeing you in this. “No way I'm wearing that,” you say firmly.

Ava frowns. “Oh, c'mon. At least try it once.”

Ellie folds her arms. “Yeah—try it, girl. She loves this stuff.”

You whip your head at her, “I do not! Never wore a dress in my damn life.”

“C’mon, it’s perfect. You’ll look all… fancy. Real ladylike.” Ellie grins.

You shoot her a glare, “Oh, I see. You’re enjoying this. You sold me out, you little shit.”

“What? Me? Nah. I’m just… supportin’ the majority vote.”

“Majority vote my ass."

Maria chuckles, rubbing her belly. "Don’t tell me you’re gonna let a pregnant woman down."

“Ugh, this is not fair at all."

“C'mon please. Say it. Say you’ll try it,” Ellie smiles sweetly.

You point a finger at her, mock-threatening. “You’re dead to me.”

Ellie pouts, pursing her lips. Maria shakes her head, pretending to look disappointed. Ava holds the dress patiently, looking you square in the eyes.

Fuck… I’d rather be hunting infected outside than dealing with this crap in here, you think yourself.

Finally, with a frustrated huff, you snatch the dress from Ava.

“Fine. Fiiine! I’ll try the damn thing. But if I look stupid, I’m blamin’ every last one of you.”

‘°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°TWO WRONGS, ONE RIGHT°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°’

As you walk away from Maria, Ava, and Ellie and make your way back to the kennel, you can't stop thinking about all. Maybe it might be better to just skip the dance altogether, yeah you should; the thought of appearing like that in that ridiculous dress, even with its long sleeves, fills you with unease.

Back at the kennel, Mike spots you immediately and comes over, notebook in hand. Amid the chorus of barking dogs, Taxi wags his tail so fast his whole body practically quivers.

“About time,” Mike says with a grin. “He’s been whining since you left. Poor guy’s bored out of his mind.”

Taxi presses his head against the fence, trying to reach you. You drop to your knees, fingers slipping through the wires to stroke his hot, impatient muzzle.

“Can I take him for a lap?”

Mike hesitates only a moment before unlocking the gate.

“Yeah, sure. Go on. Just stay inside the fence, alright? They’ll chew me out if they see you roaming.”

"Thanks, Mike," you say, smiling at him.

No sooner do you grab the leash than Taxi launches forward, raw energy coursing through him. You laugh, running around with him, wild, reckless and pure. He’s still getting the hang of the leash but is super excited to be out of that cage. You both zoom around the grass, having a blast together, reliving those awesome days when you felt totally free and like partners in crime.

You were so wrapped up in the moment that you spent hours together, completely unaware that it was nearly dark outside.

Then Taxi abruptly stops.

Ears perked, body taut.

He sniffs, slow and deliberate.

A few sharp barks break the quiet of the evening. 

“Everything good?” Mike calls from the fence. 

“Yeah,” you say, but your voice wavers a bit. The dog is frozen, staring at something you can’t see. That look, those barks, the way his lip curls—it feels way too familiar. 

Trouble. Threat. Danger.

Someone he recognizes by scent.

You grip his head, whispering: “Sssshh… calm down, buddy. Is that the one? Show me.”

Taxi growls, low and unwavering. Other dogs tense at the sound—a mixture of curiosity and instinct. You calmly raise a hand, soothing them, a trick you’ve practiced since yesterday.

Then it clicks.

The note, your clothes strewn across the woods—this has to be the same person behind it all. Taxi must’ve memorized the scent; he is an expert in this. You’ve tracked raiders, hunting animals, even avoided Fedra patrols using his talent.

Why not now?

Keys to the kennel’s back door are in your pocket. From here, no one can see you unless you stand tall.

And you make your mind.

Every second counts.

The streets are quieter than usual as you slip out behind the kennel, keeping close to the shadows. Taxi moves at your side, nose to the ground, ears alert, muscles tense like coiled springs. Every creak of a board, every whisper of wind through the trees makes your heart jump, but you force yourself to stay calm.

Stay hidden. Stay quiet. Don’t let anyone see you, you remind yourself, tugging the dog slightly back whenever it wants to rush forward.

You move down side streets, ducking behind crates and trees, careful to avoid the few townsfolk still lingering outside. Taxi's soft growl guides you, pulling you toward the source of the smell. Every step feels charged, every shadow a possible threat.

Focus.

Just follow him. We’ll know when we get close, you tell yourself.

Despite the fear and uncertainty, your pulse quickens with anticipation. Maybe tonight, you’ll get a clue. Maybe tonight, you’ll finally uncover who’s been lurking near your home.

A figure passes ahead, hood drawn low, hands stuffed in pockets. Taxi freezes, ears pricked, a low warning bark rumbling from his throat. Your stomach drops.

This is them.

It has to be.

You crouch lower, heart hammering. One step at a time, careful, silent, closing in on the person who threatened you. Every nerve screams to be ready—for questions, for answers, for confrontation. But for now, you let Taxi lead the way, trusting his instincts, trusting your own.

Taxi’s tail is stiff, growls low, muscles coiled like springs—he’s certain of the trail.

Ahead, the figure moves silently, hood drawn low, and your stomach tightens.

As you and Taxi slip through the alleyways, the occasional townsfolk stroll past. A couple of men hauling crates pause mid-step, eying you curiously. Taxi stiffens, but you give him a calm pat, muttering under your breath: “Relax… just passing through.”

The men glance at you again, and one mutters something about the kennel, probably guessing where you’re coming from. You smirk lightly, keeping your tone casual. “Evening, fellas,” you say, tilting your head in mock acknowledgment, as if nothing unusual is happening. They nod, shrug, and move along.

A few steps later, a woman with a basket notices Taxi and frowns, stepping aside. You crouch slightly, leash loose in your hand, and say softly, “Easy there, buddy.” The dog settles just enough for you to keep moving. You toss a quick grin her way, “Don’t worry, he’s friendly,” and she returns a wary nod, clearly unsure what to make of the two of you.

Every time someone appears, you maintain that same calm, measured energy—cool, collected, like you belong here, like nothing can shake you. Taxi’s nose never leaves the ground, guiding you closer to the scent, ignoring distractions. The streets are quiet enough now that each faint shuffle or whispered word makes your heart skip, but you don’t let it show.

Finally, around a corner, Taxi’s growl sharpens, low and insistent. You crouch instinctively, pulling him back slightly. Ahead, a shadowed figure moves just beyond the lamplight.

Your stomach twists.

This is it.

Your jaw tightens, hand gripping the leash: “Alright, buddy… let’s see who you’ve got for us.”

Even as townsfolk continue their routines nearby, oblivious, you and Taxi move like shadows, silent, purposeful, closing in on your target.

You and Taxi quietly sneak up to an old shed behind the horse stables, keeping a low profile as you follow the hooded figure. You can’t shake the feeling that you’ve seen this person before—big build and a certain shape—and you’re really curious to see their face. Hiding behind some hay bales, you keep an eye on them from a distance. There's a two armed guards nearby, but they all seem to be on friendly terms. Just then, Taxi growls and starts to get restless, pulling you along with him.

But then—

“Hey! Stop right there.”

A sharp voice cuts the night. Two guards step out from the corner, rifles raised, blocking your path. The lantern light glints off the barrels pointed straight at you.

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath. Taxi bristles instantly, teeth bared, growling so deep you feel it in your bones.

One of the guards shouts, “Leash that dog! You can’t be out here like this!”

Your hands tighten on the leash. You square your shoulders, forcing calm into your voice though your heart is racing. “Lower the damn gun. You’re making it worse.”

Taxi snarls louder, ready to lunge. You crouch down, stroking his neck, whispering fast: “Easy, boy. Not him. Not yet. Breathe.”

The tension sharpens, seconds stretching like hours—until another voice slices through.

"Christ! Holster that there rifle, ya hear?" Tommy strides out from behind the guards, hands lifted in easy authority. His tone is firm but smooth. "She's one of our'n. Ain't no call to go makin' a fuss."

The guards hesitate, glancing at each other, but slowly lower their weapons. Relief surges through you, but it’s short-lived—because Joel appears right behind Tommy, his eyes locked on you. He crosses the distance fast, voice low and sharp.

“What the hell are you doin’ out here?”

Before you can answer, Taxi lunges forward again, nearly yanking you off balance. His growl is directed past the guards—straight at the hooded figure you’ve been following.

“That’s him,” you snap, pointing. “Taxi picked up his scent. He’s the one who threatened me with that note.”

Slowly, deliberately, the person lifts their head, pulling the hood back—

—and Jesse’s face comes into view.

“Wait—what the fuck?” you mutter, blinking in shock.

Jesse throws his hands up, exasperated. “Whoa, easy! It’s just me.”

Tommy frowns. Joel narrows his eyes. Taxi growls uncertainly, caught between instinct and confusion.

Jesse sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wasn’t sneakin’ on you, alright? I was… uh… trying to avoid Dina.” He shrugs sheepishly. “She’s mad at me, and I didn’t wanna get cornered tonight.”

You stare at him, stunned. All that tension, the chase, the fear—just to corner Jesse hiding from his own girlfriend.

Tommy pinches the bridge of his nose. Joel mutters something under his breath you don’t quite catch, but it’s probably a curse.

You huff out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. “They almost shot my goddamn dog because you can’t face your damn girlfriend.”

Jesse throws you a look, defensive. “Hey, don’t blame me. How was I supposed to know your dog’s got a grudge against my laundry?”

Taxi’s hackles are still raised. His growl doesn’t fade—not even when Jesse lowers his hood. Instead, the dog swings his nose toward Joel… then Tommy. He takes a step forward, sniffing the air hard, a rumble vibrating in his chest.

“Easy, boy,” you murmur, tugging the leash back, crouching beside him. But his gaze doesn’t leave the brothers, tail rigid, ears locked forward.

“Why’s he doin’ that?” Jesse asks.

You stroke Taxi’s neck, speaking quick, low, like you’re explaining a fact no one else can see. “His nose is sharper than anything I’ve ever known. He doesn’t just smell… he remembers. Scents cling. Fear, sweat, blood—they stay. Like my clothes in the woods, whoever touched them left their scent, and he picks it up, remembers it, but...” Your eyes narrow as you glance from Joel to Tommy. “So why’s he getting this scent all wrong now?”

The two brothers exchange a look—quick, sharp, heavy with something unsaid. The kind of look that makes your gut twist, because suddenly it feels like everyone here knows something you don’t.

Finally, Tommy exhales slowly, running a hand over his face. His gaze cuts to Joel, heavy, almost reluctant.

“We can’t keep this under wraps anymore.”

Joel’s jaw clenches as he hides his hands behind him, and you could’ve sworn you saw some red stains on them—maybe blood? He looks at you—hard, guarded—but there’s no denying it now.

You snap your gaze up at the brothers, your chest heaving.

“…What the hell are you keeping from me?”

Tommy’s voice cuts through the tension, steady but grim.

“Dog ain’t wrong.”

Joel’s hand shoots out, clamping onto his brother’s arm. “Tommy—”

Tommy wrenches free, rolling his eyes in exasperation. “She deserves to know, Joel.”

Your heart slams against your ribs, fear and fury mixing.

“What are you talkin’ about?”

Tommy meets your eyes, expression heavy with the weight of the truth.

“…We found ‘im already.”

The words hit the air like a hammer blow.

Your stomach twists, questions colliding at once. Found who? How long have they known? Why the hell are they only telling you now?

Joel finally breaks his silence, his voice low, almost a growl. “You wanted answers. Well, you’re about to get ’em.”

The moment you step into the shed, the stench hits you—copper, sweat, blood. As soon as you open the door, Taxi starts growling, his hackles up, ears perked up. The smell must have hit him hard, and you raise your hand to try to calm him down.

There, slumped against the wall, is a man. His face is so swollen, purple and red, he barely looks human anymore. Blood mats his shirt, drips down to the dirt. You lean over to check his face, -or what's left of it-. Your stomach twists. “…If I knew him before,” you whisper, breath shallow, “I sure as hell don’t now.”

Behind you, Tommy exhales, heavy. “Joel worked him over. Had to. We need him scared enough to play his part. When he wakes, he’ll radio his people, tell ’em to move exactly where we want ’em. Then we take ’em all at once.”

Your gaze flicks to Joel instantly. His hands ball up into fists at his sides. For a moment, your eyes lock. His jaw tightens, yours does too, until the silence feels like it’ll snap. Finally, you breathe out, “How’d you even know it was him?”

Tommy shifts his weight, sighs, “Three weeks back, he came in with a trade group. We pulled 'im aside, asked questions like we always do. Somethin’ in his story didn’t sit right. Kept our peepers peeled since. 'N Jesse found a radio on 'im… 'n a notebook in his kit. Pages ripped out—the same kinda paper your note was written on.”

Jesse nods stiffly. “Couldn’t risk lettin’ it slide. We set a trap. Caught 'im dead to rights last night."

Your chest tightens. “And he talked?”

Tommy’s voice goes grim. “Yeah. Said he’d already sent word to his people. They been settin’ up camp out near Soda Springs. That’s where their base is.”

Joel cuts in, voice low and sharp. “Me an’ Tommy rode out there at dawn. Place was deserted. They got the jitters. Knew we was on their tail. Packed their gear and hightailed it outta there."

“Why?” you snap. “Why would they run if they had the upper hand?”

Joel hesitates. “'Cause they said… they wouldn’t touch Jackson… If…” His gaze suddenly darkens.

"...Not if we handed you over,” Jesse jumps in to finish his sentence.

The words hit like ice water down your spine.

Your mouth goes dry. “…What?”

Joel turns his gaze away, yet the fury in his eyes is unmistakable.

Tommy cuts in quickly, trying to keep you from spiraling. “And that’s why we didn’t tell you, Kat. Nothin’ good comes from panic. We needed proof first. Needed to know exactly what we were up against.”

You stare at him, impatient. “Alright then. Tell me. What are we dealing with? Who the hell are they… FEDRA?”

He shakes his head slowly. “What’s left of ’em. Survivors, stragglers… maybe Fireflies, maybe Hunters. Don't rightly matter—they're all dangerous as a rattlesnake. But the head honcho? The one callin' the shots? Guess we should thank Joel for how this turned out..." He stops a sec, eyes Joel, then back to you. "Bastard gave us a name. Vickie. Used to be high up in FEDRA. She's the one runnin' the show. Stuck 'im right inside Jackson."

The name hits you like a punch to the chest.

Vickie…

Your whole body goes rigid. The sound of it is like a blade reopening an old wound.

Tommy catches it instantly. “You know her.”

You swallow hard, fists curling. “Yeah. She… trained me. Back in QZ. Pittsburgh. She was my CO.”

That earns you three sharp looks. Tommy, Jesse, Joel. The silence is suffocating until Tommy steps forward, his tone sharpened like a question he’s been holding back for too long.

“Then maybe you can explain somethin’ for us. Why the hell are they so dead set on you?"

Jesse cut in, his gaze stern, "What makes you worth all this risk?”

Before you could react, Joel bristles at his side, snapping back, “Back off, kid,” his voice is iron, protective, but you raise a hand, stopping him.

“They want me because of what I did,” you admit. Your voice is rough, but steady. “I’ve killed more FEDRA soldiers than I can count. And Vickie—she made me into what I am. Guess now she wants the pieces back,” you say, trying hard to not let them sense you hiding more.

Tommy studies you for a moment, then, as if leveling the field, offers his own confession.

“Well, don’t think you’re the only one with skeletons. Gibson. He was the Fedra General or somethin’. We had him. I—hurt him ’til he talked. FEDRA didn’t take kindly to that. Bastards came after me… after Eugene too—”

“Gibson…” You cut him off. “I knew him. He was Vickie’s superior. A major. I, uh…” You hesitate, then throw the words like stones into the silence. “I might’ve blown up his entire unit. Twenty men. Maybe more. That was almost ten years ago. Guess you finished the job, huh?”

The room goes completely silent. Jesse swallows hard, shifting where he stands. Tommy lets out a sharp, disbelieving laugh.

“Jesus Christ. Twenty? Girl… no wonder these fuckers want you so bad.”

“Shit,” Jesse mutters under his breath, eyes wide.

Joel says nothing. He just watches you, face unreadable, not a flicker of blame in his expression.

Taxi presses against your leg, warm and steady. You glance down, stroke his fur, and let a small, bitter smile escape.

Finally, you break the silence. “So. What now? What’s the plan?”

Tommy crosses his arms, business returning to his tone. “We wait. When this asshole wakes up, he’ll call his people. Tell us how many, where they’re holed up. Then we’ll pull ’em in where we want ’em. End it on our terms.”

You shake your head, stepping closer. “No. This is on me. I started it, I finish it. They’re here for me—I should be the one to handle it.”

Joel’s voice cuts through like a knife. “And that—right there—is why I didn’t tell you.” His hand clamps onto your arm before you can argue. “C’mon.”

You jerk against his grip. “The fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Gettin’ you home.”

“What? Let go!” You twist, snapping into movements drilled years ago—an elbow strike, a sharp pivot to break the hold. Joel blocks it, countering with brute force. You shift again, trying to drop his weight, but he’s faster, stronger. In a heartbeat, he’s got you pinned, then hefted over his shoulder like you weigh nothing.

“Goddammit, Joel!” you snarl, pounding your fists into his back. “Put me the hell down!”

Behind you, Jesse whistles low, shaking his head. “She’s not gonna make this easy.”

Tommy smirks, though his eyes are heavy. “Ain’t that the fuckin’ truth.”

Taxi growls, low and fierce, teeth bared toward Joel. Jesse reacts quick, grabbing the dog before he lunges, holding him tight.

“Easy, boy,” Jesse murmurs, keeping Taxi under control while Joel steps back.

“Take ‘im back to the kennel. Now!” Joel barks.

You shake your head. “He can’t—he won’t—”

Your eyes snap to Tommy, silently pleading. He tilts his head, a crooked grin breaking through the tension.

“Christ. Girl, just fuckin’ let him. It’s better this way. That dog o’ yours and you? Death squad in trainin’,” he says, half-teasing, half-serious. “You’re dangerous together.”

“No. You don’t get it. You all make decisions, whisper behind closed doors, and I’m supposed to just… sit pretty? Screw that. I’m not some passenger in my own life.”

“Joel, let her—” Tommy starts.

“Goddammit, Kat,” Joel mutters, then finally lowers you to the ground with a curse.

“Kat… listen,” Tommy says, steady and firm. “You don’t need to throw yourself into danger. You’re one of us now. We’ll handle this together. Tonight’s done—we wait until tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” you echo, skeptical.

“Tomorrow night’s the dance,” he explains, his voice softening. “The whole town’s waitin’ on it. One night to breathe easy, one night where everyone forgets what’s outside those walls. After that—we tell everyone, and we face this together. No solo missions. Understand?”

You glare, arms crossed tight. “Fine. But if anything happens, if he talks, you tell me everything. Every damn thing. Swear it.”

Tommy meets your eyes, nodding solemnly. “I swear.”

You turn toward Joel. He stands with his hands on his hips, jaw tight, eyes locked on you.

“Joel?” you press, eyebrows raised.

His voice drops low, almost a growl, meant only for you. “Swear it.”

The room falls still. For a moment, no one breathes. Joel doesn’t look away—his eyes burn into yours, steady, unyielding, as if daring you to challenge him again. You feel the weight of it, the stubbornness, the fear buried under all that steel.

Finally, you nod once, sharp. “Alright.”

‘°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°TWO WRONGS, ONE RIGHT°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°’

Saturday.

The whole town of Jackson seems to breathe different tonight. Lanterns glow along the main street, strung between poles, throwing warm light across the ground. Tables are set with steaming trays of food, the smell of venison stew and fresh bread carrying through the warm air. Someone’s tuning a fiddle inside the hall, notes drifting out into the night. Laughter bubbles up from groups of neighbors already making their way in. It doesn’t feel like the end of the world—not for tonight.

Joel waits at the bottom of the stairs, tugging at the cuffs of his shirt like it’s choking him. He’s cleaned up more than usual—hair combed, flannel tucked, boots polished just enough to pass Maria’s inspection. Arms crossed, he glances up toward the landing.

“Y’all comin’ or what?” His voice echoes through the house, gruff but impatient. “Don’t take a damn army this long to get dressed.”

A beat of silence. Then, footsteps. Ellie appears first, in her usual boots and shirt, smug as ever. But behind her—

Joel’s chest tightens.

You step into the light. The dress Ava had fought you to try clings in all the right places, long sleeves brushing your wrists, the fabric flowing down to your boots. It’s not fancy by old-world standards, but here, now—it makes the air catch in Joel’s throat.

Ellie smirks instantly, cutting the silence like a knife.

“Well? Say somethin’, old man. Before she thinks she looks stupid.”

You shift awkwardly, arms folding over yourself. “I do look stupid. Don’t I?”

Joel’s swallows, but no words come. His eyes linger—too long, too open.

Ellie grins wider, elbowing him. “'Stupid’ ain’t the word he’s lookin’ for, trust me. Try ‘holy fuck,’ maybe.”

Your cheeks burn. You mutter, “This was a fuckin’ mistake.”

But Joel finally exhales, voice low, almost steady. “You look… somethin’ else.” He doesn’t say more, and maybe he doesn’t need to.

It’s not much, but it lands heavy, way better than just saying 'you're beautiful.' You chuckle, trying to play it cool. “Yeah, thanks. Real poetic.”

He clears his throat, holds the door open for you, "Ladies first."

“Lady?” You snap, muttering as you step past. “You must’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

Ellie pats his chest as she passes, grinning.

“Dude,” she giggles, mimicking him next, “‘You look… somethin’ else’? Really? That’s your A-game? Jesus. You sound like a fuckin’ idiot.”

Joel rolls his eyes, muttering under his breath as he follows. “Can’t blame her.”

The hall is alive when you arrive.

Lanterns hang from beams, candles flicker on long tables, shadows dancing on the walls. The fiddle kicks up, joined by a banjo and stomping boots. People laugh, clap, spin each other across the floor. Some girls wear old salvaged dresses like you do, others stick to their patched jeans and flannels.

The mix makes you feel even more out of place.

Ellie drags you toward the food line, keeping her promise. “See? Told you we’d go in together. You’re not chickenin’ out now.”

"Yeah, yeah," you mutter.

Joel lingers back, finding Maria, Tommy, and Ava near the doorway. His eyes don’t stray far from you.

“You clean up good, brother,” Tommy teases, clapping Joel’s shoulder. “Didn’t know you had that flannel without holes.”

Joel grunts. “Ain’t 'bout me.” His gaze flicks toward you again.

Maria smiles knowingly. “It’s about her.”

Ava just sips her drink, lips quirking.

While they’re looking for a spot to sit, you’re still hanging out with Ellie, who’s keeping an eye on other Kat from a distance, trying to fade into the background, when Zach shows up. He’s looking sharper than usual—a clean shirt and his hair slicked back like he actually put in some effort.

He lets out a low whistle while checking out your dress. “Wow… didn’t think you even owned one of these.”

You tense up and shrug it off like it’s no big deal. “I don’t. Just borrowed it.”

“Well, it looks good on you. Makes you seem… nicer. Not so… rough around the edges.” His smile lingers a bit too long, way too confident.

You roll your eyes. “Don’t push it.”

But Zach doesn’t get the hint. He leans in closer, lowering his voice. “C’mon, Kat. You could’ve come with me tonight, but you bailed. Still mad at me?”

Ellie chimes in, “You mean mad at you for turning her house into a fuckin' swimming pool?”

You both chuckle softly, but Zach looks slightly annoyed, ignoring Ellie and focusing back on you.

“It’s cool, Zach,” you say, trying to sound chill.

Zach’s eyes brighten. “So, can I dance with you?”

You pause, wide-eyed. “I… dunno. I-I guess…”

“C'mon girl. Just one dance. You won’t regret it.”

You let out a sigh. “Fine, whatever.”

Ellie’s eyes flicker toward Joel, noticing the way he’s observing you like you’re the center of his world. “Uh-oh. This is gonna be interesting.”

Reluctantly, you let yourself be led to the floor. The crowd shifts, clapping in rhythm as the fiddles pick up. Boots stamp, skirts twirl. You move stiffly at first, not used to anyone guiding your steps, but muscle memory kicks in—you’ve danced before, just never like this.

Never for fun.

Zach spins you once, and laughter bubbles up from the crowd. For a heartbeat, you almost let yourself smile.

From the far side of the hall, Joel observes. He sits beside Tommy with his legs crossed and a whiskey in hand, nervously sipping from the glass. His eyes are fixed on you, dark and unreadable—as if he's trying to decide whether to intervene or let you be.

Beside him, Tommy notices, smirking. “Careful, brother. You keep starin’ like that, folks’ll start thinkin’ somethin’.”

Maria laughs softly and nudges Joel, “Too late, they already are.”

Ava giggles.

Joel shoots them a sharp glance, slams his drink back in one go, and swallows it down with irritation.

The song ends, laughter and clapping filling the hall. Zach grins, a little breathless, and leans down. “You look incredible tonight, Kat. Didn’t think a dress could suit you that well.”

You force a smile, stepping back before his hands can linger any longer on your waist.

Maria leans in, whispering, “Oh. This isn’t gonna end well.” Ava nods nervously.

Ellie, crouching slightly to watch, mumbles to herself, “Someone’s really pushing their luck…”

Glancing at Joel, “Guess the old man is jelaous, huh?” Zach says with a smirk, his hand still heavy on your hip.

Your head snap toward him. “Don’t.”

He chuckles, leaning in closer, “C’mon, you don’t really think he’s right for you. He’s damn near twice your age. You deserve someone who can actually—”

“—I said don’t.” You shove his hand off. A few dancers pause mid-step, glancing over. Zach, swaying just a bit, keeps grinning. “You like older guys, huh? Prefer the hands of men who know what they’re doin’?”

The crack of your slap echoes over the music. “Shut your fuckin’ mouth!” His cheek reddens instantly but he grabs your wrist again.

Joel’s jumps to his feet, boiling with anger, he’s two seconds from crossing the floor, but Ellie beats him to it. She shoves Zach hard in the chest, her voice cutting sharp as a whip. “Don’t fuckin’ touch her!”

Joel’s voice roars as he steps in front of you and Ellie, his accent thick and furious. “Y’heard the kid! Get th’ hell away from ‘er ‘fore I break your fuckin’ jaw.”

That’s when Zach’s father storms in, voice booming. “The fuck’s goin’ on here?!” He jabs a finger at you. “You’ve been playin’ with my boy since you showed up! First my son, then the whole goddamn town—”

“Shut your goddamn mouth!” Joel snarls.

“Your boy’s been crawlin’ after her since day one, like a goddamn stray dog.” Ellie barks. “Yeah, newsflash: your son’s a creep. Get your fuckin’ head outta your ass.”

Tommy steps between them, hand on Joel’s shoulder. “Alright, calm down, Joel." Then turns toward Ellie, "Enough.”

Ava scoffs, gesturing at Zach’s father. “You really think you’re a good example for this town?”

Zach’s father ignores her, narrows his eyes at Joel, his voice dripping with contempt. “So… you protectin’ her as what? Your girl? Your lover?”

Every eye in the barn turns to you.

Your face burns hot with humiliation and anger.

Joel’s voice drops, deadly low. His hands curl into fists.

“You fuckin’ asshole.”

Before Tommy can stop him, Joel swings. His fist connects with a sickening crack. Zach’s father crumples to the floor, groaning. The crowd gasps.

Ethan -the doc- rushes forward, kneeling beside the man.

“He’s fine. Just a knock. Nothin’ broken.”

Joel doesn’t move, his chest heaving. His voice is cold steel as he glances at the crowd. “She’s under m’ roof. M’ goddamn responsibility. Y’got a fuckin’ problem, y’bring it t’ me!"

Tommy wedges himself between Joel and the rest of the room, pushing him back toward the door, “Enough for tonight, Joel. Let’s go.”

Joel doesn’t look away from Zach’s father until Tommy shoves him hard enough to break the stare. He finally steps back, jaw tight, fists still trembling.

Just before stepping out, he takes a moment to scan the crowd, searching for your face, only to realize that you’ve already left.

The barn’s music is faint now, laughter swallowed by distance. You slip into the quiet kennel, the smell of hay and wet dog wrapping around you.
Taxi thumps his tail, whining softly as you kneel beside him.

“Guess you heard, huh? Your human’s the laughingstock of the fuckin’ dance. Shoulda just stayed home.”

Taxi whines again, that same look in his eyes pulling a reluctant smile out of you—like he always does.

The kennel door creaks open. Gail steps in, arms loosely folded across her chest. She doesn’t bark—her tone is almost gentle.

“Well… that was some night, huh? Ain’t heard the barn that loud in years.”

You tense, keeping your gaze on Taxi. “…Yeah. Real fun.”

Silence drags. Gail sighs, boots scuffing against the wooden floor as she steps closer.

“Look, I get it. Things got… outta hand. Folks are still buzzin’ about it.”

You finally glance up, frowning. “You came here just to say that?”

She shakes her head. “No. I came ’cause you need to understand somethin’. When people talk… it don’t just fall back on you.”

Your brow furrows. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Her voice drops. “I know about the threats. And I know you’re the one they want.” She exhales hard, almost trembling. “Eugene’s been takin’ quiet risks for this town longer than most even realize.”

“…Eugene?”

“I know Joel and Tommy are tryin’ to keep you safe. Fine. But I got my own to keep safe, too.” Her voice cracks, calm slipping away. “I can’t lose him, Kat. I’ve spent too many years livin’ scared. I won’t see my husband buried ‘cause of somebody I barely even know.”

You freeze, heart thudding. “…What are you sayin’?”

“They’re meetin’ tomorrow. He won’t tell me where, but I know. And whoever left those threats—they’re after you. Not him. If he doesn’t come back…” Her voice shatters on the words. “…I couldn’t survive that. Not again.”

The kennel feels smaller, the air heavier. You take a slow, shaky breath.

Joel. Tommy. They swore.

They swore if that bastard ever talked, you’d hear it first.

But they didn’t.

And now Eugene’s name hangs over your head like blood already spilled. Anger and guilt twist together, sharp enough to cut.

“…Where?”

Gail blinks. “What?”

“Where’s the meetin’?”

Her eyes widen. “You can’t be thinkin’—you won’t go alone—”

Your voice is iron, unflinching. “If they ain’t keepin’ their word… then I sure as hell ain’t keepin’ mine. So tell me, Gail. Where is it?”

 

‘°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°TWO WRONGS, ONE RIGHT°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°’

Sunday.

The first light of dawn stretches across the horizon, painting the sky in soft golds and pale pinks. The air is warm, carrying the scent of sun-baked earth and the distant green of the forest. You walk toward your destination, feeling the summer sun on your skin and the soft morning breeze against your face. Everything is quiet, almost deceptively peaceful.

No stolen horse from Jackson, just your guns and your companion, Taxi, moving beside you like in the old days. You tighten your grip on the strap of your backpack, heart steadying as the thought settles in your mind: today, you go after them. No more running. And you’ll do this alone.

No allies.

No friends.

Not the man you love hopelessly.

Jackson feels like a world away, and Joel? You can’t trust him—not anymore.

Not after everything.

This is your fight. Your reckoning. And maybe… maybe it’s your end.

He shouldn’t be mixed up in this; he should be with Ellie, safe and happy, just like before he met you. Before long, it looks like you’ll be out of luck for sure…

You can’t put his life at risk.

You swallow the lump in your throat.

Perhaps it’s about time.

Perhaps this is exactly what you should have faced long ago.

Sorry, Ellie, but I gotta do this. Just don’t be mad at me, have a happy life with him, you think to yourself.

The faint rustle of leaves in the morning breeze brushes your tears as they fall, and you feel chill. The rising sun casts long shadows, illuminating corners and alleys where danger could hide, yet there’s no one around—just you and the empty streets.

When you finally reach Riverton, the sense of isolation hits you. Such a contrast to Jackson, a town where you once felt at least partly at home. You scan the buildings, the empty streets stretching before you, and let out a shout that cracks through the calm:

“Hey! I’m here! Come on, you bastards!” Your voice echoes off the walls, defiant and raw. “I’m right here! Let’s finish this!”

A shiver runs down your spine—not from cold, but from anticipation. Very soon, you’ll face them. Your thoughts flicker to your evil father, a twinge of anger surging. “I’m here, damn it! Come get me! You want my blood for the vaccine? Come on! I’m right here, dad! Finish what you always wanted!”

Taxi barks and whines, sensing your pain. You sniff, wipe your tears, and stroke his head.

“Yeah, I know. I’m fucking out of my mind. But don’t worry… I won’t die before I fight.”

The towering structure of Riverton Mall looms ahead. You push forward, climbing the exterior stairs, boots scraping lightly against metal. The sun has climbed higher, glinting off the glass and steel. From this height, the streets look impossibly small, the world spread out beneath you, yet nothing feels safe.

Reaching the roof, you pause, eyes scanning.

But seriously, where the heck are they? There's not even a single animal in sight.

Heart hammering, adrenaline flooding your veins. You notice a faint, ominous creak beneath your boots—subtle, but enough to freeze you for a heartbeat. The metal grates and old wooden beams beneath your weight flex slightly. This roof is old… exposed to countless storms… weakened.

One wrong step, and it might not hold.

Still, you push forward, adrenaline and fear sharpening your senses. Then, the floor groans again, louder this time. The metal framework and wood splinters, shifting under your weight. Panic rises. You scream instinctively:

“Taxi! Get back! Now!”

But it’s too late. A section of the roof, likely weakened by rain and years of neglect, collapses beneath you. You fall, arms flailing, stomach dropping as the world tilts violently. Dust, debris, and chunks of metal rain down around you. You land on a jumble of rubble and a fallen column below, pressed but not crushed—only just trapped.

From above, Taxi stands frozen, barking furiously. You glance up at him, teeth gritted, lungs burning:

“No! Don’t come down here! Stay back!”

You lie trapped beneath the rubble, a column pinning your leg and cutting off your movement. Dust chokes the air, and pain shoots through your body with every shallow breath. The summer sun, once warm, now blinds you through the haze of debris. For a heartbeat, all you can do is lie there, heart hammering, adrenaline mixing with fear.

You realize, with a shock, that something’s wrong—but not with you. Dust and debris rain down from the ceiling, and for a heartbeat, everything is chaos.

Then movement. Click, scrape, thud. The sporadic, unnatural sounds of the infected—sporadically mutated, twisted creatures—fill the air. They skitter across the broken floors above, their limbs bent at impossible angles, skin glistening and mottled, faces contorted into silent screams. They smash into walls, sending plaster, metal, and broken tiles tumbling down like lethal confetti.

Your eyes widen as spores begin to spiral through the wreckage. Thick, amber-tinted clouds curl through the air, sticking to beams and splintered glass, forming ghostly curtains between you and the ceiling. The spores twist around you, forming thick curtains in the corridors, spiraling down from the ceiling vents and ductwork. Mushrooms sprout from the walls and floors, their caps sticky and glistening, some flattened under falling debris. Sporadic, hovering spores drift like slow-moving fireflies, clinging to every surface and creature, yet your lungs draw air freely, your skin untouched.

Your chest tightens as the clouds brush against your skin—but there’s nothing. No itching, no stinging, no burning sensation in your lungs.

Yes, you’re immune for sure and looks like the spores have no effect on you.

Taxi smells the threat, bark echoes in the vast, ruined interior, but he hesitates, looking back at you, instinctively wanting to protect. You grit your teeth, urgency lacing every word.

“Go! Get help! Don’t come down here, you hear me?”

Then—a sudden, wet click echoes from the shadows. A Clicker lunges toward you, its grotesque, fungal growths glinting in the sunlight. Instinct takes over. You grab your gun -Joel’s- from your belt, aim, and fire. The shot cracks sharply, and the creature collapses before it reaches you.

The chaos of the falling roof, the fungal eruption, and the metallic scent of gunfire mixes into an overwhelming sensory storm. You know your window is narrow; the rubble shifts slightly under your weight. Every second counts. You squeeze your eyes shut for a brief moment, drawing strength from the knowledge that, even surrounded by death and infection, you are untouched but still in danger, so close to death.

Above it all, Taxi's frantic, anxious presence reminds you of your only lifeline. But when pain explodes in your head—perhaps you hit your head when you fell—it's white-hot and blinding, causing the world to tilt suddenly. You cling to the rubble that has trapped your leg, breathing hard as your body jerks against the unforgiving weight, and then… nothing.

Darkness swallows you whole.

‘°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°TWO WRONGS, ONE RIGHT°ºø•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•.❀•..•❀.•❤•.¸✿¸.•❤•øº°’

A low, muffled sound drags you back from the darkness.

The first thing you register is weight—your leg still pinned, your chest heavy, each breath shallow against the dust-choked air. Vision swims, blurry shapes and light bleeding together, until one form steadies in front of you.

A figure kneels, gas mask gleaming in the fractured shafts of sunlight cutting through the ruined ceiling. For a moment, you don’t recognize him. Just another shadow bending close, just another hunter, another stranger come to finish what the world already started. Panic rises sharp in your throat.

“Hey—hey, stay with me!” The voice cuts through the distortion, muffled but urgent, deep and familiar. It tugs at something inside you, anchoring you to the sound.

You blink hard, dust stinging your eyes, trying to focus.

Your lips tremble. “…J-Joel?”

The figure freezes for a heartbeat, then nods quickly, voice breaking through again, closer, more desperate. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s me. Don’t you fuckin’ check out on me now, ya hear?”

The mask still hides his face, but you know that tone, the rasp of it, the weight of worry straining every word. Your vision sharpens little by little, enough to catch the lines of his shoulders, the set of his jaw beneath the plastic filter.

Finally, as your head tilts, you catch his eyes—tired, frantic, burning with a fear you’ve only ever seen once or twice before. Recognition floods through you like a second breath.

It is him.

Joel.

The relief nearly makes you cry. Your hand twitches, wanting to reach for him, but the rubble doesn’t let you move. He notices, his fingers brushing your hair back from your face with startling gentleness.

“Hold on. I got you,” he says, and it’s not the mask, not the danger, not the spores curling up the walls around you that matter anymore.

But then it hits you. “Joel. No—no, what are you doin’ here? You shouldn’t be here! The spores—God, Joel, you shouldn’t—”

He hushes you, a hand pressing gently against your temple. His own chest heaves, not with fear for himself, but for you.
“Don’t you worry about me. I ain’t leavin’ you down here.”

Tears sting your eyes, panic clawing at your ribs. You try to push at his chest weakly, your voice breaking.
“You’ll die if you stay. You’ll die because of me.”

His grip tightens on you, unshakable. His words come out like a vow, sharp and trembling with rage and love all at once.
“I don’t give a damn what happens t’ me. Ya hear me? I ain’t fuckin’ losin’ you. Not now, not ever. I’ll carry ya through hell itself if I gotta.”

The strength in his voice, the fire in his eyes—even behind the mask—you know he means it. Joel’s hands work fast, pulling at the rubble, grunting with each heave until the weight shifts enough for him to slide an arm under you. You gasp as the pressure lifts from your leg, pain sharp and dizzying, but before you can cry out he’s already got you—lifting you against his chest as if you weighed nothing at all.

The world tilts, the ruin of the mall spinning around you. Your head drops against his shoulder, the rough fabric of his shirt scratching your cheek. His heartbeat thunders beneath your ear, ragged, uneven—like he’s been holding his breath ever since he found you.

“Got you… I got you,” Joel mutters again, more to himself than to you, voice shaking inside the mask.

Through the haze, you catch glimpses: spores still drifting in the sunlight, like poisonous dust motes; Taxi barking furiously from above, tail whipping; and Joel forcing his way through collapsed beams until finally—finally—daylight cuts through the wreckage.

Joel staggers out of the collapsed mall, arms locked tight around you, your weight against his chest. Dust still clings to his hair, to the lenses of his mask. He’s breathing like he’s just run through hell, and maybe he has.

Tommy’s eyes go wide. Relief flashes first, then rage.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Joel! What th’ hell were ya thinkin’?” His voice cracks, raw and furious. “Ya just walk into a goddamn cloud o’ spores like it’s nothin’? I thought I lost ya, man—I thought I was gonna have t’ drag your sorry ass out!”

Joel doesn’t even look at him, just lowers you gently onto a piece of rubble, brushing hair from your face with hands that won’t stop shaking. Your eyelids flutter, and you manage to focus on him now—mask gone, face streaked with sweat and dust, eyes burning into yours.

“You… goddamn old man,” you rasp, voice weak but shaking with fury. “You risked everything—for me?”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t deny it.

“You scared the hell outta me, darlin’. I thought I lost you.”

The word catches in your mind like a spark.

Darlin’.

No one’s ever called you that—soft, warm, like you were something precious.

Not a freak. Not a survivor. Just… you.

For a second, you can’t breathe, not because of the dust in your lungs, but because Joel said it.

Before you can even answer, a familiar bark cuts through the haze. Taxi barrels toward you, nails skidding against the ground. He whines sharply and presses himself against your side, nudging your arm until you weakly lift a hand.

“Hey, boy…” your voice cracks, and you stroke his head with trembling fingers.

And Joel’s hand, still trembling, finds its way to your shoulder. He can’t bring himself to release you fully.

Not yet.

Tommy shoves a hand through his hair, pacing like he’s about to explode. “Goddamn it, Joel! You dang near give me a heart seizure. You could've—"

Eugene cuts in, his tone sharp, but his hands trembling as he points at you. “Wait. Just—look at her. No mask. She should be choking right now, lungs full of spores. But she’s not...”

"Sweet Jesus," Tommy freezes mid-step. His anger drains into confusion as his gaze darts to you.

Your breaths come steady, your skin clear, no panic in your eyes—just exhaustion.

Eugene swallows hard, voice hushed with awe.

“I’ve seen what this fungus does in minutes. But her? Not a single damn symptom. Joel… she’s..."

And then, as silence falls heavy over the group, you drag in a shaky breath, eyes flicking from Joel to Tommy, to Eugene, both staring at you in stunned disbelief.

“I guess…” Your lips curl into the faintest, bitterest smile. “…I owe you all an explanation, huh?”

......

Notes:

A page from Kat's notebook... I'll share it at the end of every chapter.
https://ibb.co/FbrWwb8T