The wasteland had a way of stripping a man down to nothing.

It took the big things first—home, family, purpose. Then it went after the small things—warm food, good sleep, a reason to laugh. Eventually, all you had left were the things you refused to let go of.

For Grizzley, that thing was a cigarette.

The old gas station stood like a fogotten tomb at the side of a ruined highway. The windows were shattered, the roof sagging, and the sun-bleached sign out front had long since lost its name.

Grizzley stepped through the broken door, boots crunching over glass. The shelves were mostly empty—looted clean years ago—but he’d learned to look where others didn’t.

The back counter.

That’s where the good stuff was sometimes left behind.

And today, the gods of nicotine were smiling on him.

A single sealed pack of cigarettes sat on the shelf behind the counter, untouched, waiting like a treasure in a dead man’s vault.

Grizzley let out a low chuckle. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

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He reached for it.

And that’s when he heard the shotgun cock.

“Don’t even think about it.”

Grizzley froze.

A woman stood in the doorway, half-shadowed against the fading light. Her shotgun was leveled at him, worn but functional. Her dark hair was pulled back, and her clothes were reinforced with leather and scavenged armor. She looked like she’d been through hell and back—same as everyone still breathing.

Grizzley raised an eyebrow. “Hell of a welcome.”

The woman didn’t lower the gun. “Step back.”

Grizzley didn’t.

“You got me dead to rights,” he said, voice even. “But let’s not be stupid.”

She smirked. “Men get stupid over less.”

Grizzley sighed, eyes flicking toward the smokes. “Look, you can have whatever else is in here. I just want the cigarettes.”

The woman scoffed. “You’re serious?”

“Deadly.”

She shook her head. “You’d risk getting shot over a pack of smokes?”

Grizzley gave her a slow grin, like they both already knew the answer.

She stared at him for a beat, then—against all odds—grinned back.

“Shit,” she muttered, lowering the shotgun slightly. “You’re a real stubborn bastard, huh?”

“Been told worse.”

She didn’t stop him as he reached over and took the pack, rolling it between his fingers like it was something sacred.

As he tucked it into his coat, she tilted her head. “You got a name?”

Grizzley struck a match, letting the flame dance in front of his face before touching it to the end of a cigarette. He took a slow drag, exhaled, then finally looked at her.

“Not one that matters.”

The woman smirked. “Fair enough.”

Grizzley turned toward the door, but as he stepped outside, he heard her call after him—“Try not to die before you finish ‘em.”

He chuckled around the cigarette between his lips. “No promises.”

And then he was gone, swallowed by the wasteland.