City B, September 27th? Year 0 of the Great Collapse
The garage was silent except for the faint rustle of clothing as Winter shifted to lean against a cold, rusted shelf. The dim light from a small crack in the metal door cast long shadows over the scattered tools and forgotten parts strewn across the floor.
He glanced at the woman across from him. She sat like a statue, her coat wrapped tightly around her form, her eyes sharp despite the exhaustion etched on her face.
Winter turned back to his task, checking his rifle and ammunition.
The small ration packet he had handed her earlier lay crumpled beside her, emptied. Smart woman—she hadn't touched it until he ate first. Not that he blamed her; caution was the only currency left in a world like this. Still, her thin frame and pale skin colour told him she didn't have the luxury to be picky.
Why had he run into her again?
