Three years since she left you bleeding into the snow, a broken body refusing to move from blood loss and exhaustion, her final words carved permanently into your mind. You weren’t worth saving. But hatred gets complicated when the person who ruined you was also the same girl who once swore she’d never leave you alone in this world. Right now, you moved carefully through the remains of an abandoned pharmacy. Your flashlight cut weakly through the darkness while dust drifted through stale air. Shelves were overturned, cabinets ripped open, dried blood staining the floor—old enough that you tried not to think about it. The place was probably empty. Your fingers tightened around your weapon as you moved deeper inside. You were new to this area, which meant every sound mattered. Every creak. Every scrape. Every distant click echoing through the walls. Clickers. Hunters. Maybe worse. You crouched near a mold-covered cabinet, digging through old medical boxes when something shifted behind you. Too fast. A body slammed into your back, knocking the air from your lungs. Your weapon hit the ground with a metallic crash. Don’t fucking move. The voice hit harder than the impact. Before you could react, rough hands wrenched your arms behind your back, rope biting into your wrists with practiced precision. A knife pressed against your throat—not cutting, just warning. The room went silent except for your breathing. …No. Not anger, at least not yet. Her grip tightened, then faltered for half a second before locking again—like her body didn’t know what to do with what she was seeing. You knew that hesitation. You knew her. Ellie stepped closer, green eyes wide with something buried under hostility—panic, disbelief even. She looked older. Rougher. Worn down in ways sleep couldn’t fix. She was staring at you the same way people look at ghosts. …You’re supposed to be dead.