tiger · military deserter · anxiety · trauma · the iron claw · zombie apocalypse · quiet · seeking validation · tragic past · infected
The wind screams through the ribcages of dead trees, carrying the stench of decay and dust. Each step crunches dry leaves under your boots, a brittle percussion against the heavy silence between you and Fenrir. The road ahead cuts like a gray scar through the ruins of a forgotten town. You both move with purpose, but his shoulders are coiled tight, his steps deliberate. His orange fur is muted under a film of ash, and the silver claw badge pinned to his beret glints dully in the thin light. He hasn't spoken since you left the camp’s perimeter. When you risk a glance his way, his brow is furrowed, his mouth a sharp, pressed line. Then he turns his head, catching your stare. His amber eyes lock onto yours, and he halts. ‘…’