Fawn exhaled softly, wiping the sweat from her brow as she glanced down at herself. Her clothes were streaked with the man's blood, her hands stained crimson. “Great,” she muttered under her breath. Her gaze shifted back to him—still unconscious, his chest rising and falling in labored, uneven breaths. With a low grunt, she pushed herself to her feet. If this man was going to recover at her camp, the least she could do was clean him up.

Working quickly, Fawn stripped him down to his boxers, careful not to disturb his injury, and used what little water she had to wipe away the grime and blood that clung to his skin. Once he was clean, or as close to it as she could manage, she grabbed him by the arms and dragged him into her tent. She wrapped him tightly in her blankets, cocooning him from the cold night air, before collecting his soiled clothes.

Tired but determined, she made her way to a nearby stream. There, under the soft moonlight, she scrubbed both his clothes and her own, the water carrying away the blood and dirt in dark swirls. When she returned, she laid the damp clothes out on the rocks near the fire, hoping the heat would dry them by morning.

It had been a long night.

Fawn dragged her sleeping bag out of the tent, casting a quick glance back at the man to make sure he was still breathing. His face had softened slightly in sleep, the tension easing just a bit from his features. "Better not bleed out on my blankets," she muttered, more to herself than him.

Satisfied he wasn't about to keel over, she spread her sleeping bag next to the fire, the warmth of the flames offering some comfort. With one last glance at the tent, she lay down and, despite the long day and lingering tension, allowed herself to drift off to sleep.

Morning arrived bright and early, and the man stirred awake with a soft flutter of his eyelids. Disoriented, he blinked at his unfamiliar surroundings. The last thing he remembered was being attacked. Now, he found himself in... a tent? Confusion clouded his mind as he tried to sit up, but a searing pain shot through his side, causing him to cry out.

He looked down at himself, realizing he was stripped to his boxers, a hastily stitched wound running across his side. Someone had patched him up—and undressed him. What the hell had happened? His heart raced, panic rising in his chest. His voice cracked as he tried to call out, but all that escaped was a hoarse rasp. Memories flooded back—he hadn’t been attacked by zombies, but by two men who had ambushed his group. He remembered the sharp metal that had pierced his side, the pain, the running... and the distant growls of zombies before everything went black.

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Lost in his thoughts, a head suddenly poked into the tent. A blonde woman, her face sprinkled with freckles, met his gaze. "Morning," she said casually, as if they were old friends. He blinked, still trying to make sense of it all. "Good to see you're alive," she added before disappearing from view.

“Wait!” he called out, his voice strained and panicked. His body protested with another sharp jab of pain, forcing him to wince and clutch his side. The blonde woman returned a few moments later, tossing a pile of clothes at him with little ceremony. “Your clothes,” she said bluntly before disappearing once again.

The man stared after her, still thoroughly confused. He struggled to dress himself, each movement sending fresh waves of pain through his side. His hastily stitched wound throbbed with every shift, but eventually, he managed to pull on his clothes. Crawling out of the tent, he blinked in the daylight, his eyes landing on the woman seated by the fire, casually cooking something over the flames.

She glanced up at him briefly, then returned to her task as if nothing about this situation was strange at all.

“What... who...” he started, but his voice faltered. He had no idea where to even begin.

Fawn, seemingly unfazed, let out a quiet huff. “Found you last night half-dead on the trail,” she said flatly, not even bothering to look up from her food. “Patched you up. How’re you feeling?”

Her nonchalance left him even more bewildered, but at least he had some answers—sort of.

“Uh...” Jack glanced down at his side, wincing slightly. “Not great,” he said sarcastically, his voice still rough. “My name’s Jack. What’s yours?”

Fawn didn’t respond. Instead, without a word, she handed him a bowl of something that resembled oatmeal. “Eat,” she instructed, then returned to her own bowl of food, her focus seemingly elsewhere.

Jack slowly sat down, his mind still reeling as he looked around. How in the world did he end up here? The ache in his side was a constant reminder of just how close he had come to death, and now he was sitting by a fire, eating with a woman who barely acknowledged him. Nothing made sense.

Jack might hesitate for a moment, glancing between his bowl and Fawn before speaking up, his voice laced with confusion and curiosity.

"So... are you just not gonna tell me your name, or is this part of some secret survival strategy?" He'd chuckle softly, trying to lighten the mood despite the pain in his side. "Not that I'm complaining—thanks for saving my life and all, but... I’m kinda lost here."

He’d wait for any reaction from her, hoping to get at least a little more out of the mysterious woman who had patched him up.

“Nessa.” She said without looking up at him.