Jackson glanced at the young Japanese man beside him, shaking his head in quiet disbelief. Fishing. Of all the things to do in a world like this. It felt strange, almost surreal, to be standing on this pier with someone like Yoshimoto, holding a fishing rod he barely knew how to use.

He hadn't gone fishing much in his life—maybe a few times as a kid when he still lived in Norway. That felt like a completely different life now, like the memory belonged to someone else. Even the events of a week ago felt distant, detached from the reality he was living now.

He gritted his teeth, remembering the call from the government. The unknown number flashing on his screen had thrown him off, especially since hardly anyone had his phone number. He could still hear the clipped voice on the other end, informing him he was required to pick up his son, Tyler.

Jackson hadn't wanted to. Hell, he didn’t even know the boy. But the law didn’t leave him much choice. Reluctantly, he'd gone through the motions, figuring he’d treat the kid to a vacation at the beach before going back to his life. A goodbye trip. Now, that plan was long gone, buried under the weight of this new, fractured world.

“What a strange world this is,” Jackson muttered under his breath, gripping the fishing rod tighter in his hands.

Yoshimoto’s ears perked up at the sound, and he smiled lightly, his tone gentle when he spoke. “Well, yes. It certainly is going to be a lot stranger now.”

Jackson gave a short nod, but his thoughts lingered. The guilt gnawed at him—was he really thinking about leaving Tyler again? The kid didn’t deserve that, not in a world this unforgiving. But responsibility like this... it felt suffocating.

“Fishing’s not too bad,” Jackson finally said, more to himself than Yoshimoto. “Good way to clear my head, I guess.”

“Exactly,” Yoshimoto replied, casting his line with practiced ease. “It’s not just relaxing. It’s practical. Fish could be a reliable food source, especially now. We need to think long-term.”

Jackson studied him for a moment, surprised by the young man’s focus. “Good point. I’m not a big fan of fish myself, but I can’t argue with that.” He cast his own line, though the motion felt awkward, unpracticed.

Yoshimoto chuckled softly. “Patience,” he said, watching his line ripple on the water. “Fishing teaches patience. It’s not something you can rush.”

Jackson huffed a dry laugh. “Patience isn’t exactly my strong suit.” His eyes fixed on the water, his thoughts drifting back to Tyler. Even if the boy looked just like him, they were strangers in every way that mattered.

He clenched his jaw, forcing the thought aside. For now, all he could do was wait.

"Well... Just close your eyes and clear your mind," Yoshimoto said, his voice calm and reflective. He cast his line back into the water with a practiced flick of his wrist. He knew Jackson was wrestling with something deeper than the simple act of fishing.

Yoshimoto’s own father had once told him the same advice, though it was delivered far less kindly. His father believed in hard lessons, tossing Yoshimoto into America with barely a farewell, expecting him to thrive in an unfamiliar world. At first, it had broken him. Now, standing on a pier in the middle of an apocalypse, it felt like that moment had somehow prepared him for this chaos.

But the thought of never seeing his father again hit him like a sharp hook. He bit his lip, doing his best to keep those emotions buried. He reminded himself of the truth: his parents were likely safe in one of those apocalypse bunkers they’d invested in years ago, far away in Japan. Still, the ache lingered.

Yoshimoto shook his head, clearing the melancholy from his mind, just as Jackson’s voice broke through his thoughts.

"Oh! It looks like I've caught something!" Jackson exclaimed, his voice tinged with excitement and a flicker of disbelief.

Yoshimoto blinked, momentarily startled, and looked over at Jackson. The man’s line was taut, the rod bending under the weight of something beneath the water.

"Well, don’t just sit there! Pull! Pull, Jackson!" Yoshimoto urged, motioning with his own rod as if to mimic the movement. His excitement grew, a rare smile spreading across his face.

Jackson nodded, gripping the rod tightly. His hands trembled slightly as he began to reel in the line, muttering to himself as if summoning his own strength. "Come on! Come on! I'm Jackson Smith! I can do this!" His voice grew louder, more determined, each word pushing away the doubts clawing at his mind.

Yoshimoto couldn’t help but cheer him on, his voice rising with encouragement. "That’s it! You’ve almost got it!"

The water splashed violently as Jackson continued his struggle, the line jerking back and forth. For a brief moment, the tension in the air shifted. Despite the horrors surrounding them, the mundane act of catching a fish seemed monumental—a tiny victory in a world falling apart.

Jackson’s mind wandered, almost involuntarily, as he pulled. His mother’s words echoed in his ears, a memory from years ago: You can do anything you put your mind to, Jackson. He had believed her once, back when the world felt simpler. But somewhere along the way, he’d traded that belief for a desk job, for routine, for survival instead of ambition.

With a final heave, Jackson yanked the line up, and a glistening fish burst out of the water, flopping wildly. It wasn’t huge, but it was enough to bring a triumphant grin to Yoshimoto’s face.

"Not bad, Jackson. Not bad at all," Yoshimoto said, nodding approvingly.

Jackson wiped his brow, the thrill of the catch fading as he looked at the wriggling fish. It wasn’t much, but it was something. A brief spark of normalcy in a world that had been anything but. Still, he couldn’t shake the unease brewing in the back of his mind.

He looked out at the horizon, the quiet lapping of the water doing little to calm him. Tyler... His son’s name lingered in his thoughts. No matter how much he tried to suppress it, the guilt gnawed at him. For now, though, he had to focus on the task at hand—because in this world, even small victories could mean the difference between hope and despair.

Jackson couldn’t help but feel a flicker of pride as he looked at the small fish wriggling at the end of the line. It wasn’t much, but in a world like this, every victory felt monumental.

Yoshimoto approached, his movements smooth and deliberate as he grabbed the fish. With a deft flick of his wrist, he cut it free with the small knife he’d been carrying. The fish flopped briefly in his hands before he dropped it into the bucket resting near the edge of the pier. The splash of water inside the bucket echoed faintly in the stillness around them.

"Good catch!" Yoshimoto said with an encouraging grin. "We aren’t done yet, though! We’ve got a lot of mouths to feed... and by the sound of it, the Lieutenant’s expecting even more people to come soon."

Yoshimoto’s tone was light, almost hopeful, but Jackson didn’t share his optimism. His smile faded, and he turned his head, staring out at the water as if it could offer him an escape from the thoughts gnawing at his mind.

A large group of people wasn’t what Jackson wanted. He clenched his jaw, fighting the rising feeling of unease. The idea of retreating to the mountains with the others suddenly seemed far more appealing—a quiet place where they could ride this out without the weight of responsibility pressing on him.

"Yep... we still have a lot of work to do," Jackson muttered, forcing a weak smile as he looked back at Yoshimoto. It didn’t reach his eyes.

Yoshimoto, ever perceptive, seemed to notice the shift in Jackson’s mood but said nothing. Instead, he nodded and turned back to his own fishing line, casting it effortlessly into the water. The faint plunk of the line breaking the surface carried through the salty air.

Jackson followed suit, his line sailing out into the sea with a soft whistle. The two men stood there in silence, the occasional creak of the pier beneath their feet and the distant cry of seagulls the only sounds accompanying them.

As the minutes dragged on, Jackson’s thoughts drifted back to the group they had left behind. Could they really rely on this place? Could they trust the Lieutenant to keep them safe? And more importantly, could he trust himself to stay?

The quiet tension between the two men was palpable, neither daring to voice the doubts that lingered in their minds. For now, all they could do was wait for the sea to offer up its next meager prize.

---

"Hannah! Come on, Hannah! Wake up!" Geneva shouted, her voice rising in desperation as she hovered over her best friend. Her hands trembled, almost tempted to slap her awake.

This wasn’t the time for Hannah’s usual games, and yet... Geneva hesitated. Something about this felt wrong—different. Her friend’s pallor was far worse than before, her breathing shallow and uneven.

She took a step back, her gaze falling to Hannah's leg. The veins beneath her skin had darkened, faint purple lines creeping up from the bite and vanishing beneath the tattered skirt that hung loosely on her. The infection was spreading faster than Geneva had anticipated, and the sight sent a cold shiver down her spine.

"Come on, Hannah," Geneva muttered, her voice cracking. "I can’t be alone right now..." She sank to the corner of the room, hugging her knees as she tried to calm herself. Panic was rising in her chest like a tide, suffocating and unrelenting.

She wiped at her face, willing herself to focus. You’re two years into nursing school, she thought. You should know what to do. So think.

"Alright... I need to check her pulse," Geneva whispered, trying to reassure herself. Her hands shook as she approached the bed, each step feeling heavier than the last.

She placed her trembling fingers on Hannah's chest, pressing gently against her ribcage. The silence was deafening. Geneva held her breath, straining to feel even the faintest flutter of a heartbeat.

Nothing.

Quickly, she pulled her hand back, her heart pounding wildly. "Okay... Maybe I just missed it," she murmured, moving to Hannah's wrist. Her fingers pressed into the soft skin, searching for a pulse, but her friend’s arm felt cold. Lifeless.

"Hannah, come on," Geneva whispered, fighting back tears. She tried one last time, this time reaching for Hannah’s neck. As her fingers brushed against the skin, Hannah twitched.

Geneva gasped and stumbled backward, her heart racing as she waited for Hannah to lunge at her like the infected they’d barely escaped. But Hannah didn’t move. She remained perfectly still, her chest rising and falling shallowly, her eyes still closed.

The room felt impossibly small, suffocating in its silence. Geneva backed away, her eyes darting between the door and her friend’s unmoving figure. This isn’t normal. None of this is normal.

"I need to tell the Lieutenant..." Geneva muttered, more to herself than anyone else. Her voice wavered as she reached for the bunker door. "He’ll know what to do. He has to..."

Geneva cast one last glance at her friend Hannah, who remained eerily still on the bunk. Her chest tightened, and for a brief moment, she hesitated. But the sight of those dark, spreading veins spurred her forward. She turned and left the bunker, the door creaking slightly as it closed behind her.

The warm hues of the setting sun painted the sky, but Geneva found no comfort in its beauty. Instead, it filled her with dread. The last time the sun had dipped below the horizon, it had ushered in the worst night of her life. She swallowed hard, trying not to think about what this second night might bring.

"Keep it together, Geneva," she muttered under her breath, her voice shaky but determined. She quickened her pace, heading toward the main office where Lieutenant Ward had retreated earlier.

The crunch of gravel under her feet seemed unnaturally loud in the stillness of the fort. Every sound felt amplified, every shadow threatening to move. She forced herself to focus on the task at hand, her fists clenching and unclenching at her sides.

As she reached the office door, Geneva paused, her hand hovering over the handle. She took a deep breath, steeling herself for the conversation to come.

"Alright... Stay calm," she whispered, her voice barely audible. She didn’t want to alarm the Lieutenant, but the situation with Hannah felt far too urgent to ignore.

Geneva gripped the door handle and tugged, only to find it locked. She frowned, her pulse quickening. It was clear the Lieutenant wanted his privacy. She hesitated, her hand still on the cool metal, debating whether to disturb him.

"I'm sorry to bother you, Lieutenant Ward!" she called out, her voice rising with a mix of anxiety and urgency. She knocked lightly on the door, then stepped back, hoping he would hear her.

For a moment, there was only silence. Geneva’s heart pounded in her chest as she glanced around the quiet fort. The creeping shadows from the setting sun seemed to stretch unnaturally long, and the stillness of the air made her skin crawl.

"Lieutenant Ward?" she called again, louder this time. Her voice echoed faintly before fading into the eerie calm.

Inside, she heard the faint scrape of a chair moving, followed by the heavy thud of boots approaching the door.

Just from the sound of the heavy boots thudding across the floor, Geneva could tell Lieutenant Ward was in an ill mood. Her stomach twisted, but she reminded herself why she was here. This was too important to back down from now.

The door creaked open, and the Lieutenant’s sharp, weary gaze locked onto her. His broad frame filled the doorway, and his fists were clenched tightly at his sides.

“Yes, Geneva? Can I help you?” he asked, his voice steady but edged with restrained frustration.

Geneva shivered under his intense stare. She could tell his anger wasn’t directed at her, but rather at the hopeless situation he found himself in. He had likely been trying to focus on contacting someone—anyone—and was hitting wall after wall of failure. He needed a target for his frustration, and Geneva feared she might be it.

“I… I’m scared, Lieutenant,” she admitted, her voice trembling. She fought the urge to turn and run back to the bunker, where Hannah lay alone. The image of her friend’s pale face and purple-veined skin flashed in her mind, making her stomach churn.

The Lieutenant’s expression softened, just slightly. He let out a long, rough sigh, rubbing a hand over his face as he glanced past Geneva toward the fading daylight. For a moment, the world seemed too quiet, the weight of everything pressing down on both of them.

“How about this,” he said finally, his tone calmer but still clipped. “If you’re really that scared, you can all stay in here with me. Safer that way.” He gestured vaguely toward the bunker behind her, the one he clearly had no intention of entering himself.

Geneva bit her lip, glancing back toward the bunker. She wanted to take him up on the offer, but she knew it wasn’t that simple. Her voice trembled as she replied, “Well… That’s the thing… Jackson and Yoshi left to go fishing, and…”

Her voice faltered, trailing off into an uneasy silence. She couldn’t bring herself to say what she was truly worried about—that Hannah might already be gone, or worse, turning into something else entirely.

The Lieutenant frowned, his sharp eyes narrowing. “And what?” he pressed, stepping forward slightly. The weight of his presence felt suffocating.

Geneva lowered her gaze to the ground, her hands twisting nervously in front of her. “And… Hannah,” she finally whispered. “Something’s wrong with her. I… I think she might be…” Her words caught in her throat, the rest of the sentence left unspoken.

For the first time, the Lieutenant’s eyes softened, and he let out another sigh. Without a word, he reached for his gun and slung it over his shoulder.

“Let’s go,” he said firmly, brushing past her and heading toward the bunker. “You’re staying behind me. Whatever’s going on, we’ll deal with it.”

Geneva nodded hesitantly, her fear mounting as she followed a few paces behind him. The door to the bunker loomed closer with each step, and she couldn’t shake the growing sense that they were already too late.

---

“Five fish for five people! Looks like we’re eating good tonight!” Yoshimoto exclaimed, holding up the last fish wriggling at the end of his line. A proud grin spread across his face as he added it to their growing haul.

Though they had set out hoping for more, fishing had proven to be far more difficult than either of them had anticipated. The daylight was quickly slipping away, painting the sky in shades of deep orange and purple.

Yoshimoto glanced around uneasily, his cheerful demeanor dampened by the eerie silence creeping over the area. The water shimmered darkly under the fading light, and the distant sounds of nature were slowly being swallowed by the night.

“Alright, let’s call it a day,” Yoshimoto said, nodding toward the hilltop where the faint outline of the main office and bunker loomed. “We’ll have plenty of time to catch more tomorrow. It’s getting late.”

Jackson, however, didn’t move. His eyes stayed fixed on the water, the fishing rod gripped tightly in his hands. A stubborn grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Nah, I’ve got to catch one more,” he said. “Can’t let you show me up like that.”

Yoshimoto rolled his eyes, exasperated. “Come on, man. Five fish is plenty! You caught the first one anyway. Let’s call it even.”

But Jackson shook his head, focused entirely on his line. “I’ve got to prove to myself I’ve still got it,” he said with a chuckle. “Just one more cast.”

Yoshimoto sighed, glancing nervously toward the hill again. The dark shapes near the main office seemed to flicker for a moment, but he shook off the feeling. Probably just shadows.

“Alright, but don’t say I didn’t warn you when something creeps up behind us,” he muttered, crossing his arms as he stood behind Jackson.

Jackson ignored him, lowering his line one last time. He took a deep breath, enjoying the rare moment of peace. Fishing brought back distant memories—simpler times when life wasn’t a living nightmare. He smiled to himself, just as a sharp *splash* shattered the calm.

“What the hell was that?!” Yoshimoto blurted, jumping to his feet.

Jackson froze, his eyes scanning the rippling water. The splash had been too large for a fish. Something heavy had disturbed the surface, sending small waves rocking against the pier. His grip tightened on the fishing rod as he took a cautious step back.

Before either of them could process what was happening, a pale, bloated hand shot up from the water. It slammed onto the wooden pier with a sickening squelch, the skin torn and waterlogged. A second hand followed, gripping the edge tightly as a head emerged.

“Oh, shit!” Jackson yelled, stumbling backward. His heart raced as he stared at the lifeless, glassy eyes of one of the dead. Algae clung to its skin, and water dripped from its ragged clothes as it began to haul itself onto the pier.

Yoshimoto was quick to react, grabbing his bow and an arrow from the bundle he’d brought along. “I’ve got this!” he shouted, pulling the string back in one fluid motion. The arrow whistled through the air and struck the zombie in the throat, pinning it to the wooden planks.

The creature thrashed, gurgling as its blackened blood spilled onto the pier. It clawed desperately at the arrow, its jaw snapping wildly as it tried to lunge forward.

“Damn thing won’t die!” Jackson shouted, his panic giving way to anger. Without thinking, he stomped forward and drove his boot into the zombie’s head. The first strike made a sickening crunch, but it wasn’t enough. He brought his boot down again. And again.

Finally, with one last stomp, the creature fell still, its skull caved in. Jackson stood over it, breathing heavily, his foot smeared with gore.

Yoshimoto lowered his bow, his face pale but his hands steady. “That was… too close,” he muttered, staring at the lifeless corpse.

Jackson nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah. Let’s grab the fish and get the hell out of here,” he said, his voice grim. He bent down to pick up the bucket, his eyes darting nervously to the dark water.

Yoshimoto followed, his bow still in hand as they quickly gathered their gear. The peace of the evening was gone, replaced by an oppressive sense of unease. Whatever safety they thought they’d found here was already beginning to feel like an illusion.

---

The heavy stomp of the Lieutenant’s boots echoed against the cold ground as he approached the bunker’s door. Geneva trailed behind him, her soft sobs punctuating the otherwise still air. Her steps faltered with each cry, but she didn’t stop following. She couldn’t.

Her eyes were fixed on the gun in Ward’s hand, a dark omen of what was about to happen. She hugged her arms tightly around herself, almost as if shielding herself from the reality unfolding in front of her.

Ward didn’t glance back at her, his focus unwavering. His grip on the weapon was steady, but his expression betrayed him—a cold mask hiding an inner turmoil. He had trained for this, knew this moment was inevitable. He’d been told that hesitation was death. These weren’t people anymore; they were the enemy.

Still, there was no manual for the weight that came with pulling the trigger. No way to prepare for the look on a living person’s face when you decided they couldn’t stay.

"You’re going to kill her, aren’t you?" Geneva’s voice broke through the silence, trembling but direct. There was no accusation, just fear and sadness.

Ward finally stopped and turned his head toward her, his steely demeanor cracking for just a moment. His eyes softened, but the resolution in them remained firm.

"If it comes to that… yes. I can’t let her be a risk to the rest of us. I’m sorry, Geneva," he said, his voice low but steady, weighed down by his own words.

Geneva wiped her eyes, sniffing loudly, her chest tight. "I get it... I do. But it doesn’t make it any easier to watch," she whispered, her voice breaking.

Ward gave her a nod of understanding, though he didn’t respond immediately. He turned back toward the bunker, gripping the weapon tighter as his jaw clenched.

They were nearing the door now. Geneva’s steps slowed even more as her unease grew. Memories of her family in Pennsylvania flashed through her mind—the fights, the blood, the pain. She had thought she’d seen the worst life had to offer back then. She was wrong.

"You don’t have to come in," Ward said suddenly, his voice softer, more human. "This isn’t something you need to see."

Geneva shook her head. "She’s my best friend. I won’t let her be alone, even if..." Her voice trailed off, and she closed her eyes tightly for a moment before opening them again, filled with tears but determined.

Ward sighed, his expression grim. "Alright," he muttered, gripping the door handle.

With a deep breath, he pushed the door open.

As the two of them stepped into the dimly lit room, a wave of foul air hit them like a physical force. Ward immediately brought a hand to his nose, wincing in disgust.

"Christ! This is disgusting!" he muttered, his voice muffled behind his fingers. His sharp eyes scanned the room, taking in every shadow and every small detail. Something about the smell tugged at his memory, a grotesque familiarity he didn’t want to acknowledge.

Geneva shivered, hugging herself tightly as her eyes darted toward the far side of the room. The faint, sickly glow from a small overhead light illuminated Hannah, standing motionless, her back partially turned to them. The sight made Geneva’s heart skip a beat.

"Hannah?" she whispered at first, her voice barely audible.

Hannah’s head turned slowly, unnaturally, toward them, the dim light catching the veins crawling up her neck. Her eyes locked on Geneva’s, and for a moment, something flickered—a faint, haunting echo of recognition. Geneva felt her breath hitch in her throat. But that glimmer of humanity faded as quickly as it came, replaced by a soulless emptiness.

"Hannah! It's me, Geneva!" Geneva’s voice cracked as she stepped forward, her instinct to rush to her friend overpowering her fear. "You’re okay! I knew you’d be okay!"

"Geneva, stop!" Ward barked, his tone firm but edged with tension. He already had his hand on his gun, raising it slowly as his gaze locked onto Hannah’s unnatural stance. "That’s not Hannah anymore."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Geneva snapped, turning back to glare at him. Her eyes shone with desperation. "She’s standing! She’s fine! Why can’t you see that?!"

Ward’s jaw tightened, his finger resting lightly on the trigger. "Look at her, Geneva. Really look at her. That’s not your friend. That’s one of them now."

Geneva’s mouth opened to argue, but she froze as a low, guttural growl escaped Hannah’s lips. The sound sent chills down her spine. Her friend’s lips curled back, revealing bloodied gums and jagged teeth.

"She’s dead," Ward said grimly, his voice low and steady. "I’m sorry, but she’s gone."

Geneva’s head shook violently. "No! You’re wrong! She—"

A sudden, blood-curdling shriek erupted from Hannah as she lunged forward, her movements jerky but terrifyingly fast. Geneva stumbled back in shock, but Ward stood his ground, his years of experience snapping into action.

The gun roared to life, echoing deafeningly in the enclosed space. Geneva’s hands flew to her ears, her body trembling with each blast. The first shot hit Hannah in the shoulder, spinning her slightly, but it did little to slow her. Ward adjusted his aim and fired again, hitting her square in the chest, but she kept coming, her blackened eyes fixed on him with feral intent.

"Stay back, Geneva!" Ward shouted over the deafening chaos.

Hannah lunged again, closer now, her rotting fingers reaching for Ward’s throat. But he was faster, stepping to the side and firing once more. This time, the shot hit her in the head, sending her stumbling backward.

Ward didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward and swung his blade—a clean, practiced motion honed over years of training. The strike connected, and Hannah’s body crumpled to the ground with a sickening thud.

For a moment, silence enveloped the room, broken only by Geneva’s ragged breathing. Her hands slowly lowered from her ears, and she stared at her friend’s lifeless body, tears streaming down her face.

"She’s gone, Geneva," Ward said quietly, his voice heavy with a mixture of guilt and resolution.

Geneva couldn’t bring herself to respond. She turned away, her body trembling as the weight of the moment crushed down on her. She didn’t know what to feel—anger, sadness, fear, or all of them at once.

Ward cleaned his blade with practiced efficiency, his face a cold mask. But his hands trembled slightly as he sheathed it, the reality of what he’d done settling over him like a dark cloud.

"We need to get the others," he said, his voice softer now. "This place isn’t safe. Not anymore."

As Ward pulled the blade from Hannah’s skull, a sickening squelch echoed through the room. He crouched down, brushing the bloodied blade off on her tattered shirt. The casualness of the action turned Geneva’s stomach, her disgust barely concealed as she clutched her arms tightly around herself.

She wanted so badly to run to Hannah, to hold her friend one last time. But the memory of what she’d just witnessed—those lifeless eyes, that unnatural growl—rooted her in place. That hadn’t been her friend. That had been a monster wearing her skin.

The oppressive silence was shattered by a voice from the doorway.

"We’re here... And God damn, what the hell was that?!" Yoshimoto’s voice wavered as he stepped cautiously into the room, his eyes darting between Hannah’s lifeless body and the bloodied blade in Ward’s hand. He looked pale, as though he might vomit at any second.

Jackson followed closely behind him, his expression much harder to read. He stood silently, his gaze fixed on the scene before him, not with shock or horror, but with quiet detachment. He’d already begun to numb himself to things like this. He barely knew Hannah, and what little connection they had didn’t weigh on him now.

"Should we be here?" Jackson whispered under his breath, his eyes briefly flicking to Geneva. Her face was pale and vacant, her expression one of someone on the edge of breaking.

Ward turned to face the newcomers, his voice calm but heavy. "Looks like Geneva’s friend, Hannah, turned. She charged at us… Didn’t really leave us much of a choice." He holstered his gun, but his grip lingered on the handle as if expecting another threat to emerge.

Yoshimoto swallowed hard, his face grim as he processed what had just been said. "This is... This is crazy. We shouldn’t be living like this..." His voice was tinged with disbelief, his usual lighthearted demeanor completely absent.

Geneva’s trembling voice broke through the tension. "We should bury her..." she whispered, her eyes still glued to the floor. But her words seemed to fall into the void, unheard or ignored by the others.

Instead, Jackson shifted uncomfortably, drawing a sharp breath before speaking. "Look… I won’t lie. I’ve got a son, about five to ten minutes from here. I need to get him… I need to make sure he’s okay," he said firmly, his voice low but resolute.

Geneva didn’t seem to register his words. Her world had shrunk to the small, lifeless figure on the ground and the weight of her own helplessness.

Ward nodded slowly, his tone neutral but understanding. "Alright. You go and take care of your family," he said, meeting Jackson’s eyes. "There’s a safe place for you here if you change your mind. We’re going to fortify this place, make it even safer soon."

Ward’s words were clearly meant for everyone in the room, his gaze lingering on Yoshimoto and Geneva as if silently pleading for them to stay.

"I’ll keep that in mind," Jackson replied after a pause. His jaw tightened, and he bit his lip as if holding back words he didn’t feel ready to say.

The tension in the room was thick, but no one made a move to break it. Jackson cast one last glance at the others before taking a step toward the door, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. For him, there was only one priority now: his son.