Ellies eye was twitching, her face scrunching up in annoyance.

  The source of her annoyance?

  “Iiiiiiiii’m hooked on a feeling!

  Bum bum bum ba-da-da!

  I'm high on believing!

  Bum bum ba-da bum!!!!

  That you're in love with mEeeeeEeEeEE!!!!”

  She didn’t know how he could be so carefree. They were in a cell for fucks sake! But there he is, singing in a horribly out of tune voice.

  “Girl you got me thirsty!

  For another cup of wiIiIiInnneeeee-”

  “WOULD YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP WITH THAT HORRIBLE SINGING!” Ellie screeched, finally sick of James singing.

  James paused mid-lyric, looking over at Ellie with mock offense, one hand dramatically clutching his chest.

  “Damn, Ellie,” he said, blinking innocently. “You wound me.”

  “You’re about to be fucking wounded if you don’t stop,” she growled, arms crossed tightly as she glared at him.

  James smirked, clearly unfazed. He let a few seconds of silence pass—just long enough for Ellie to think she’d won—before he took a deep breath and—

  “I’M HOOKED ON A FELLING—”

  Ellie lunged.

  James yelped, barely dodging as she swung a fist at his arm. He scrambled back against the wall of the room, laughing as she continued to swat at him.

  “I SAID SHUT UP!” Ellie shouted, landing a punch against his shoulder.

  “Ow! Police brutality!” James joked, rubbing his arm as he grinned at her. “Is this what FEDRA school taught you? No wonder Joel looks tired all the time.”

  Ellie huffed, plopping back down against the cold wall, glaring daggers at him.

  “I swear to God, if you sing one more fucking word, I’ll—”

  “Now I got it baaaaad for youuuuu—”

  Ellie threw her boot at him.

  It hit the door with a loud CLANG, and James snorted with laughter, curling up to protect himself from any follow-up attacks.

  “You are the worst,” Ellie muttered, grabbing her boot back as she flopped against the wall.

  James just grinned, stretching out and making himself comfortable.

  They had been stuck in this cell for hours now. No food. No water. Just the sound of their own breathing and the occasional murmur of voices from beyond the thick metal door. The boredom was becoming unbearable. James could feel it gnawing at him, scratching at the inside of his skull like an itch he couldn’t reach.

  He sighed, tipping his head back against the wall. Maybe I can just sleep it off. His eyelids drooped. Yeah. That’ll work.

  The door creaked open.

  James jolted awake, instinctively reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there.

  A guard stood in the doorway, a wiry man dressed in patched-up clothes that had seen better days. His grip was firm on an old hunting rifle, his eyes scanning them with practiced wariness.

  “Come on,” the guard said. “Akil wants to talk to you.”

  Joel was the first to stand, his expression unreadable as he adjusted his stance. Ellie followed, cracking her neck as she shook off her boredom. James took his sweet time, stretching dramatically before getting to his feet.

  The air outside the cell was damp and stale, the tunnels beyond barely lit by flickering lanterns mounted along the walls. Shadows danced unnaturally as they moved through the underground maze, each step echoing down the narrow stone corridors.

  This place is bigger than I thought. James took in the walls—old concrete, cracked and damp with moisture, lined with remnants of past use. They were definitely still in the tunnels.

  They climbed a narrow set of stairs, their boots scuffing against the worn-out steps. Finally, they emerged into a room that was clearly once some kind of control center, now turned into a makeshift headquarters.

  A large table dominated the space, its surface covered with maps, scattered notes, and diagrams of the city above. The room smelled of oil, paper, and sweat, a place occupied by people constantly on edge, always planning, always watching.

  Sitting behind the table was Akil.

  His eyes flicked up to meet theirs as they entered. He looked more relaxed than he had earlier, but there was still something calculating in his gaze, like a man sizing up a threat he wasn’t sure of yet.

  Two others stood beside him—a middle-aged man with dark, graying hair, sharp eyes that scanned them like he was reading between the lines of their existence. Beside him, a dusky-skinned woman with brown hair tied back, old glasses perched on the bridge of her nose, her arms crossed in quiet scrutiny.

  Akil offered a faint smile. “Good to see you. I hope your time in the pit wasn’t too bad.”

  Ellie rolled her eyes. “Oh yeah. It was a blast.”

  Akil chuckled, a hint of amusement in his expression before it faded into something more serious. “Glad to hear it.” He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “Now, before we go any further, we have some tests that need to be conducted—just to make sure we can trust you.”

  Joel’s expression darkened. “What kind of tests?”

  Akil turned to the graying man beside him. “This is Peter, our resident psychiatrist.”

  Peter nodded once in greeting, his gaze lingering on each of them.

  “He’ll be asking each of you a series of questions to determine what kind of people you are.” Akil’s voice took on a hard edge. “Do not lie. You won’t get away with it.”

  A heavy silence settled over the room.

  Ellie shifted on her feet, glancing at Joel. James simply smirked, intrigued.

  .-.-.-.-.-.

  The room was cold. Not in temperature—just in feeling. Like a place where people sat and had things taken from them, one way or another.

  Joel was familiar with rooms like this. He’d been on both sides of the table before.

  The walls were thick concrete, damp in the corners. The only source of light was an oil lantern mounted on the wall, flickering lazily, casting shadows that stretched and curled with every movement. The battered wooden table in front of him was scarred and scratched, a relic from whatever this place used to be.

  Joel sat with his hands resting on his knees, his posture stiff but controlled. He’d been in worse situations.

  Across from him, Peter—the so-called psychiatrist—sat with a notebook and pen, his sharp, scrutinizing eyes locked onto Joel’s face. The man was older, but not soft. He had the look of someone who’d done his share of surviving. That made him dangerous in a way Joel didn’t like.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  The door behind Joel clicked shut. A guard lingered by it, rifle slung over his shoulder, watching silently.

  A long stretch of silence filled the room. Peter tapped the end of his pen against the table, studying him like a puzzle he had to figure out.

  Joel just stared back.

  Finally, Peter leaned forward slightly, flipping open his notebook. "You don’t seem like the talkative type."

  Joel didn’t blink. "Ain’t much to say."

  Peter let the words settle before he spoke again. "I’m going to ask you some questions. Answer honestly."

  Joel tilted his head slightly. "And what if I don’t?"

  Peter exhaled, scribbling something down. "Then you leave us no choice but to assume the worst. And I don’t think you want that."

  Joel exhaled through his nose but said nothing.

  Peter straightened in his chair. "Let’s start simple. How old are you?"

  “Fifty five” he answered with a grunt.

  The psychiatrist nodded, “Where were you born?”

  “Texas”

  The simple questions kept flowing before Peter finally straightened up and his countenance turned more serious. “Have you ever killed someone?”

  Joel’s face stayed neutral. "Yeah."

  Peter’s expression didn’t change. "How many?"

  Joel stared at him for a long moment before answering. "Lost count."

  Peter jotted something down.

  "Do you regret any of them?"

  Joel shifted in his chair, his fingers flexing on his knee. He never liked answering questions. "Some."

  Peter’s gaze flickered with interest. "And the others?"

  Joel leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees. His voice was quieter this time, but no less firm. "Ain’t regret somethin’ that needed doin’."

  Peter nodded like he expected that answer.

  "Would you kill again?"

  Joel didn’t hesitate. "If I have to."

  Peter watched him carefully. "You don’t hesitate. That’s interesting."

  Joel let out a humorless chuckle. "You hesitate, you die. Ain’t that how it works?"

  Peter took a moment before flipping the page. "Tell me, Joel. Do you believe people can change?"

  Joel’s expression hardened. His eyes flickered for just a second—something shifting behind them—but then it was gone. "Not really."

  Peter tilted his head. "Not even yourself?"

  Joel’s fingers curled slightly, but he kept his face neutral. "People are who they are."

  Peter tapped his pen against the table. "So you don’t believe in redemption?"

  Joel exhaled slowly. "Redemption’s just a word. People use it to sleep at night."

  Peter nodded, jotting something down again. "Do you believe you’re a good man, Joel?"

  Joel’s gaze turned sharp. "You ask a lotta questions."

  Peter leaned back slightly. "That’s my job."

  Silence stretched between them.

  Finally, Joel sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. "No. I ain’t a good man."

  Peter studied him, fingers drumming against the wood. "Do you care?"

  Joel’s voice was quiet this time. "Not anymore."

  The room felt heavier with that answer.

  Peter let the silence hang before flipping another page. "Would you betray someone close to you if it meant survival?"

  Joel’s eyes darkened. "Ain’t got many people close to me anymore."

  Peter’s expression remained unreadable. "And the ones you do?"

  Joel’s fingers clenched into a fist on his knee. "I’d do what I had to."

  Peter nodded. "To protect them?"

  Joel’s voice came out rougher than he intended. "Yeah."

  Peter tapped the notebook. "Even if it meant hurting others?"

  Joel’s patience was wearing thin. "It ain’t about hurtin’ people. It’s about what’s left when the dust settles."

  Peter watched him for a long time before finally closing his notebook.

  Then, just as Joel was expecting to be dismissed, Peter leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. "Who did you lose, Joel?"

  Joel’s entire body tensed. His fingers twitched, his breath deepened, and something dangerous flashed across his face—something raw, something that hadn’t healed.

  Peter didn’t look away. "A child, maybe? A wife? A brother?"

  Joel’s expression turned cold as ice. "That ain’t your business."

  Peter exhaled, tapping his fingers against the wood. He had pushed enough. He had his answer.

  "Alright," Peter said, voice quieter now. "That’s all for now."

  The door opened behind Joel, and the guard stepped aside. Without another word, Joel stood up and walked out.

  As he reached the door, Peter spoke one last time.

  "You say you’re not a good man, Joel. But I think you still want to be."

  Joel didn’t turn around. Didn’t acknowledge it.

  He just stepped out into the hallway.

  .-.-.-.-.-.

  It had been about ten minutes since the interrogation, and Joel was back in the pit, sitting in the same damp, dimly lit room where they had been held before. The conversation with Peter kept looping in his mind, each question lingering longer than he liked. He could still hear the man’s voice in his head, poking at old wounds he had long since buried.

  Joel exhaled slowly, rubbing his hands together absentmindedly as he leaned against the wall. His thoughts drifted to Ellie. How was she holding up?

  The silence was cut short by the distant sound of shouting.

  Joel’s head snapped up, muscles tensing.

  The noise was coming from down the hallway—muffled at first, but growing louder, more frantic. He stood, moving closer to the door, straining his ears. The walls distorted the voices, but something about the fury in the words made his gut tighten.

  Then, clear as day, he recognized it.

  Ellie.

  Joel’s hands curled into fists. He started pacing, his mind racing. What the hell were they doing to her? Should he break the door down? Try to get to her?

  He was just about to act when the door suddenly burst open.

  Ellie was shoved inside so hard she hit the ground with a grunt.

  But before Joel could react, she was already back on her feet, spinning around like a raging bull.

  She charged the door, fists slamming into the metal with a force that made the whole frame rattle.

  "WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE, YOU BASTARD! BRINGING UP MY MOM LIKE THAT?!?!" She roared, pounding on the door so hard her knuckles turned white. "GO FUCK YOURSELF, YOU COWARD!"

  Joel relaxed a bit, the worry that she had been hurt disappearing as he realized what happened.

  Before she could keep going, Joel grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her back.

  “Huh!?” Ellie twisted in his grip, startled. “Let me go!” She struggled, kicking and trying to shake him off, but Joel held firm.

  “Ellie,” he said, his voice low and firm. “Calm down.”

  She kept fighting against him for a few more seconds, breath ragged, body tense with fury. But slowly, her breathing steadied. The tremble in her fists lessened, and her muscles stopped shaking under his grip.

  Joel felt her finally stop resisting, and he let go.

  Ellie let out a frustrated breath, running a hand through her hair before slumping against the wall, hugging her knees to her chest.

  Joel stood there for a moment, awkward as ever. He had never been good at this—handling feelings.

  He scratched the back of his neck before finally forcing the words out. “Want to… talk about it?”

  Ellie didn’t look at him. For a long moment, she just stared at the floor, her expression unreadable. Then, without a word, she turned her head away.

  Joel sighed. He didn’t push.

  Instead, he just sat down beside her, waiting.

  The minutes dragged on, the only sounds in the room the distant echoes of people moving beyond the door. The flickering oil lantern cast long shadows across the damp walls.

  Then, after ten minutes of silence, Ellie finally spoke.

  Her voice was quieter now, her usual sharpness dulled. “Wonder how James is doing with the interrogation.”

  Joel glanced at her, his face unreadable. He had a feeling the kid would be fine.

  .-.-.-.-.-.-.

  The chair was uncomfortable, the air stale, and James had no doubt this was the kind of place meant to make a person feel small.

  But James didn’t look small.

  He sat with a relaxed posture, leaning slightly back in his chair, eyes flickering around the room with interest. His fingers tapped lightly on the armrest, not in impatience, but curiosity. Like he was taking in every detail—the way the lantern's light wavered, the subtle dampness in the air, the faint scratches on the wooden table between him and Peter.

  Peter sat across from him, studying him as he had Joel and Ellie, notebook open, pen poised. His gaze was steady, but there was something else there—curiosity, maybe even caution.

  "Let’s start simple," Peter said, flipping to a blank page. "Where are you from?"

  James blinked, then grinned slightly. "New York."

  Peter nodded, jotting it down. "City or state?"

  "City."

  Peter raised a brow, “Really? Last I heard the city was in ruins. I didn't think there was anything left there.”

  James shrugged non-committedly.

  Peter made another note. "How old are you?"

  "Fifteen."

  Peter glanced at him briefly, as if assessing the answer, before writing it down. "And how long have you been on your own?"

  James tilted his head slightly, considering the question. "Been bouncing around for a while. Probably about a year since I've been with people, lost track. Met Joel and Ellie only a day or two ago."

  Peter hummed, his pen scratching against the paper. "And before that?"

  James simply shrugged.

  Peter didn’t press yet. Instead, he turned the page and leaned back slightly. "Alright, let’s move on. Have you ever killed someone?"

  James hummed, tilting his head slightly. "Nope."

  Peter raised an eyebrow. "Not even once?"

  James shook his head, the grin never leaving his face. "Nah"

  "What about infected?"

  James exhaled, his fingers tapping absently on the table. "Oh, plenty of those."

  Peter tapped his pen against the notebook. "Do you regret any of them?"

  James thought about that for a second, his lips pursing slightly. "Not really."

  "Why not?"

  James rocked his leg slightly, his pent up energy catching up to him, “Feel like im doing them a favor honestly”

  Peter nodded, “And how do you find yourself dealing with the struggles of being on the road.”

  James smiled, “I love traveling,” he said.

  That seemed to catch Peter off guard, “Really? Even with all the dangers?”

  James nodded happily, “Yeah! If you know how to deal with them you're not held down by anything.” he said, his eyes shining, “It really is beautiful, the world.”

  Peter frowned, “Even with all the cruelty out there.” he questioned.

  James shrugged, “That’s just how the world works. People live, people die. Some are crueler than others, some are luckier. It all just… happens."

  Peter’s pen stopped briefly, but his expression remained unreadable.

  The man studied the child for a moment longer, interest flickering in his eyes, before moving to the next question. "What was your life like before all this?"

  For the first time, James’ expression flickered—just for a split second.

  The usual brightness in his face dimmed ever so slightly, and something unreadable passed through his eyes. Then, just as quickly, it was gone.

  His answer was casual, like he was talking about the weather. "I was hospitalized for most of my life. Weak immune system, bad lungs—whole mess of things, really. Spent a lot of time in a bed, waiting around. My parents didn't really… stick around for all that."

  Peter didn’t interrupt. He just waited.

  James’s face remained neutral, completely unbothered. If he felt anything about it, he didn’t show it.

  Then, almost instantly, his expression brightened.

  "But my grandpa? He stuck by me. He made sure I was taken care of, made sure I didn’t just sit there feeling sorry for myself. Taught me a lot about life, the world—everything, really."

  Peter took in the shift—the way James’ whole posture lightened, the way his fingers stopped fidgeting. It wasn’t hard to see that this was the only part of his past that really mattered to him.

  Peter tapped his pen against his notebook again. "And what happened to him?"

  James’s smile faltered, just slightly. But this time, his expression didn’t flicker—it settled.

  "He died."

  Silence hung between them.

  Peter didn’t press further. He didn’t need to.

  Finally, he closed his notebook, studying James for a long moment.

  "Alright. That’s all for now."

  James grinned as he stood up, stretching. "That was fun. Maybe next time, you tell me about yourself, huh?"

  Peter simply nodded toward the door, and the guard stepped aside to let him out.

  As James walked out of the room, Peter remained seated, his pen still resting against the paper, the words he had just written still fresh on the page.

  This one… was different.