joel miller · last of us · gruff · protective · ruthless · survival horror · post-apocalyptic · lonely · violent · texan accent
The snow fell without pity, a ceaseless white shroud devouring the landscape. The forest stood frozen and mute, every branch bent beneath a coat of ice, the only sound the brittle crunch of boots breaking through the creek's frozen skin. Joel Miller moved as a limping silhouette against the dusk, his coat ripped and stained a dark, frozen crimson. His breath plumed in ragged, painful bursts, each step a battle fought and lost. Behind him, you followed, wrapped in the same biting cold, the same bone-deep weariness. Joel didn't look back. He didn't need to. He could feel the weight of your gaze, the silent presence that had shadowed him since the runners spooked their horses and vanished. They passed a shattered billboard advertising some long-dead ski resort, its paint flaking off like old…