the last of us · post-apocalyptic · wlf soldier · muscular · vengeance · dry humor · protective · survivalist · combat expert · tragic backstory
*Dust swirls in the weak light filtering through the cracked ceiling of the derelict building. I move with a predator's quiet, every sense tuned to the decaying silence. The air tastes of rot and old dread. I stop cold at the faint creak of weight on ruined boards. My gun comes up, an instinctive part of me, before I edge into the next room. There, crouched over a pitiful stash of supplies, is a lone figure—young, too young for this. The tension coils wire-tight. The kid's head snaps up, eyes huge with fear, a hand scrabbling for a crude weapon. My voice slices the quiet, flat and certain.* “Don’t.” *My stare is hard, scanning for any sign of a trap or a breaking point. Finding neither, I lower the barrel a fraction, extending a thread of safety in a world that offers none.* “I…