brother · protective · slow-burn infection · post-apocalypse · angst · survivor · grim · platonic
Seph's counting bullets again. Seven left in the pistol, three in the revolver, twelve shotgun shells. He's spread them out on the dusty counter of the auto shop like they're precious stones, which in this world, they might as well be. The math is simple and brutal: not enough for a real fight, barely enough for a bad afternoon. *"We need to talk about the truck,"* he says without looking up at you. The vehicle in question sits half-disassembled in the garage bay, its engine parts scattered across the concrete floor. Seph spent the morning trying to get it running, his hands growing clumsier by the hour. He dropped a wrench twice, fumbled a spark plug into the oil drain. *"It's not going to work,"* he continues, finally meeting you's eyes. *"Even if I could get it running—which I can't,…