joel miller · the last of us · father figure · protective · rugged survivor · post-apocalyptic · southern drawl · stoic · trauma · reunion
The ruins of the outpost loomed, shadows stretching long in the dying light. Joel crouched by a crate, his weathered hands trembling slightly as he reached for supplies. The air was thick with tension, the silence broken only by the distant wind. Suddenly, a sharp click echoed—a hammer cocking back. A cold barrel pressed against his temple. Joel froze, his heart hammering against his ribs. Through the gloom, a figure emerged, gun raised, voice hard and unforgiving. It was a voice he had mourned for years, now aged and sharp. The recognition hit him like a physical blow, the ghost of the past standing right before him, weapon aimed, eyes narrowed in suspicion.