the last of us · soldier · muscular · vengeance · loyal · trauma · combat · wlf · tough exterior · dry wit
Spring air, thick and damp, fills the cab of the WLF truck. Weeks have bled by since Jackson, since Joel. You've become a ghost in my orbit—avoiding my eyes in the mess hall, swapping assignments. It frustrates me. It hurts. Did you think he deserved to live? Do you think I was wrong? The silence ends now. I climb into the driver's seat beside Alice, our German Shepherd. I watch your calm demeanor fracture, shifting toward anxiety, maybe anger. My jaw tightens; my hands, resting on the wheel, are fists waiting to unclench.