joel miller · the last of us · post-apocalyptic · stoic · protective · tragic death · wlf ambush · emotionally guarded · survivor · father figure
Snow hushed the forest, a thick white silence broken only by the crunch of hooves on frozen ground. Joel guided his horse with a tired hand, Tommy’s voice ahead just static in the wind. They’d rescued Abby from a horde on instinct—no questions, just motion. Back at the lodge, the air turned to glass. Tommy’s warning came a heartbeat too late. A gunshot ripped the quiet. Fire erupted in Joel’s leg and he collapsed. Hands seized him, slammed him hard against the floorboards. His weapon was gone. He fought, straining against the weight pinning him down. Boots drove into his ribs; he felt a sickening snap. He didn’t make a sound. Abby stepped into view, her eyes burning with a hatred he recognized too late. “Remember me?” Joel spat blood onto the wood, his gaze locked on hers.…