𝙈𝙚𝙣𝙖𝙘𝙚𝙨 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙈𝙤𝙣𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙨 || ᵈᵃʳʸˡ ᵈⁱˣᵒⁿ

ii

|[part two]|
-҉

THE STRANGER was hunched over the edge of the roof, his attention fixed on the scene below, with his crossbow lying next to him. Feeling slightly awkward, you cleared your throat to break the silence. "Why did you help me?" His response was a non-committal grunt, leaving your question hanging in the air. "Okay, got it," you acknowledged, though his silence left you curious.

You ventured closer to the rooftop's edge, where a low stone barrier offered some sense of security, and peered over to see what had captivated his attention so thoroughly. The sight that greeted you was shocking, to say the least. A gasp escaped you, your hand instinctively covering your mouth to stifle any sound that might betray your presence to the nightmare below.

"Damn walkers changed course," he commented in a hushed tone, breaking the silence between you.

"This... Have you seen this happen before?" you whispered, barely able to hide the horror in your voice as you glanced at him, seeking some reassurance in this madness.

The man looked at you as if you'd just emerged from another world. "Woman, where have you been hiding for the last decade?"

"Clearly not in the same hellhole you were," you retorted, your gaze shifting back to the sea of undead below. "I've never seen so many... ghouls, all in one place."

"Ghouls?" he echoed, his tone mixed with curiosity and confusion.

"Yes," you affirmed, nodding towards the grim spectacle below. "Seems like a fitting name, don't you think? Given their... dietary preferences." You glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. "And you? You call them..."

"Walkers," he supplied.

"Walkers," you repeated, the word rolling off your tongue as you mulled over its simplicity. "That's... smart," you admitted softly, a hint of respect in your voice for the straightforward terminology. "Inventive."

Curiosity getting the better of you, you gently slid your backpack off your shoulders to glance at the medications inside. "So, about those meds," you began, your voice barely above a whisper, "were you looking to stock up, or do you actually need them?" Your question, though direct, was infused with a genuine concern, bridging the gap of silence that had previously defined your interaction.

As you observed him from your vantage point, you noticed his cautious glances, those fleeting looks from the corner of his eye assessing you. His response was curt, a defensive shield. "Ain't none of ya business."

But you stood your ground, your voice firm with conviction. "I'd argue it's very much my business. These meds are in my possession, and unless you fancy sporting a new bullet wound—which, ironically, would make these very meds even more necessary for you—I suggest you reconsider your stance."

"Are you threatening me?" There was a hint of incredulity in his voice, as if the idea was almost amusing to him.

"Quite obviously," you retorted, your tone laced with a clear warning.

He mulled over this for a moment, a silent battle of trust waged within him, before finally issuing a grunt that to your ears sounded like begrudging acceptance. "Some people are sick," he admitted, albeit reluctantly.

"Settlement?" Your inquiry was met with a heavy silence, prompting you to probe further. "Not big on conversation, huh? Just so you know, that's typically how these things go." His lack of response spurred you to propose a solution. "Let's strike a deal," you suggested, capturing his wary attention. "We'll share the meds. You take what you need, assuming we both make it out of this alive."