Jackson woke slowly, pain dragging him back into consciousness before his eyes had even fully opened.

His ribs felt tight beneath the bandages wrapped around his torso. Heat pulsed through the wound underneath them, sharp enough that the moment he shifted, he sucked air through his teeth.

The room smelled sterile.

Not clean.

Sterile.

Like somebody had tried too hard to wash blood out of it.

For a few seconds, his mind stayed blank.

Then memory came back ugly.

The quarters.

Bill.

Adrian.

Cherie standing there while everything went to hell.

Jackson stared at the ceiling silently.

The light above him buzzed faintly.

He turned his head slightly.

Cherie stood near the doorway with her arms folded tight across herself. She looked exhausted. More than exhausted. Like she hadn’t slept since it happened.

The moment their eyes met, she looked away.

Jackson’s stare lingered on her.

Not anger.

Something colder.

Saul suddenly pushed into the room carrying enough energy for both of them.

"Holy shit," he breathed, already moving forward.

Jackson barely had time to react before Saul wrapped his arms around him carefully.

"There you are."

Jackson winced from the pressure against his side but said nothing.

Saul pulled away after a second, relief still written all over his face.

"You scared the hell outta me."

Jackson looked at him quietly.

Then finally spoke.

"...where the hell is everyone?"

Saul’s expression shifted.

"Locked up," he answered.

A beat passed.

"Including the kid who stabbed you."

Jackson didn’t react.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t make some sarcastic remark.

His eyes slowly moved back toward Cherie.

She looked smaller somehow under that stare. Guilty in a way that sat heavy in the room without anybody saying it aloud.

Jackson looked back at Saul.

Didn’t need words.

Why is she still here?

Saul exhaled quietly through his nose and rubbed at his forehead before brushing hair back from it.

"Get some rest, little brother," he murmured.

Jackson kept staring at him.

Saul avoided it.

Then he turned toward the door.

Cherie hesitated before following after him.

Saul didn’t offer her a hand.

Didn’t wait for her.

She still followed anyway.

Slowly.

The door shut behind them with a soft click.

Jackson looked back up at the ceiling again.

His jaw tightened.

Then finally, he closed his eyes.

—

The cell ceiling stared back at Harry like it had been doing it for hours.

Maybe it had.

The dripping pipes somewhere deeper in the block echoed softly through the dark concrete halls. Water hitting metal. Slow. Repetitive.

It almost sounded peaceful.

Compared to everything else.

Harry laid against the mattress with one arm behind his head, eyes half-lidded.

The mattress smelled rotten.

The blanket they gave him looked older than the apocalypse itself.

Rust stained the bars.

The air felt damp enough to choke on.

But honestly?

He’d slept in worse places.

Outside the cell, chains rattled faintly.

Metal scraped.

Then footsteps.

Heavy boots.

Harry didn’t move at first.

"Harry Miller."

The soldier’s voice carried through the corridor flatly.

Harry stared at the ceiling another second before finally shifting slightly.

"Someone’s here for you."

Something unpleasant twisted in his chest immediately.

He hated that feeling.

Hated how fast hope could still show up despite everything.

Harry slowly sat up, eyes moving toward the bars.

The closer the footsteps got, the worse that feeling became.

Then he saw her.

His mother.

Sheryl stood outside the cell clutching her hands together tightly enough her knuckles had gone pale.

Harry’s expression darkened instantly.

Whatever tiny bit of anticipation had existed vanished so fast it almost embarrassed him.

Without saying a word, he laid back down fully onto the mattress again.

"Harry..?"

Her voice sounded soft.

Too soft.

Harry stared at the ceiling.

Didn’t answer.

Sheryl stepped closer to the bars carefully.

"How you— how you holding up?"

Her fingers touched the bars instinctively.

"Hands off the bars, lady," the guard said immediately.

Sheryl flinched hard enough you’d think he screamed at her.

She pulled her hands back quickly and nodded to herself once.

"Right. Sorry."

The guard stepped back again.

Silence settled for a moment.

Harry closed his eyes.

He already knew where this conversation was going.

"You know I had to tell Bill, don’t you..?"

Harry let out a quiet scoff through his nose.

There it is.

"I panicked," she continued quickly.

"When I heard your plans about running away again... to leave me. For good." Her voice shook slightly. "Bill promised that—"

Harry sat up violently enough the mattress springs groaned underneath him.

"I don’t give a shit what Bill promised."

Sheryl recoiled slightly.

"That man is not my father," Harry snapped.

"So stop making it so easy for him to fill that role."

The words hit her visibly.

Harry watched it happen.

Her face tightened before she looked down briefly.

"I’m not," she said weakly.

"Yes you are."

"No, Harry, I—"

"Yes. You are."

His voice sharpened harder with every word.

"You let him make every decision around here like he owns us."

"That’s not fair."

Harry laughed once.

Humorless.

"Fair?"

Sheryl swallowed.

"He’s the only person capable of leading us right now."

Harry looked at her like she said something pathetic.

"And look where that’s gotten me."

Silence.

The pipes continued dripping somewhere in the distance.

Sheryl stared at her son through the bars quietly now.

Really stared at him.

At the bruising around his face.

At the exhaustion in his eyes.

At the cuts still healing along his arms.

He looked older than he was.

Way older.

Like surviving had aged him faster than time ever could.

Something inside her seemed to crack at the sight.

Her eyes watered before she even realized it.

"Harry..." she whispered.

Harry immediately looked away.

That almost made it worse.

"I just want what’s best for you."

He rolled his eyes.

"I hate him for letting you go out there," she continued emotionally.

"I do."

Harry frowned slightly at that despite himself.

Sheryl shook her head.

"I hate every single time you leave and I don’t know if you’re coming back."

Her voice trembled harder now.

"You think I sleep when you’re gone?"

Harry’s jaw tightened.

"You think I don’t sit there imagining..." Her voice caught. "Imagining somebody finding you the way they found your father?"

Harry’s expression changed instantly.

Not much.

Just enough.

The image hit him anyway.

His father screaming.

Blood.

Hands tearing into him.

The sound flesh made getting ripped apart.

Harry shoved the memory down viciously.

Sheryl noticed.

Of course she did.

Mothers noticed things like that.

Tears slid down her face now despite her attempts to keep composed.

"I know I can’t protect you from everything anymore," she whispered.

"This world already showed you things no kid should ever see."

Harry stared at the wall silently.

"I know that."

Her breathing shook unevenly.

"But I’m trying."

Harry shut his eyes.

"I’m trying so hard to still be your mother through all this."

That hurt worse than yelling would’ve.

Way worse.

Because there was nothing dramatic about it.

Just exhaustion.

Grief.

Fear.

The kind that sat inside people until it hollowed them out.

Sheryl stepped closer again unconsciously before stopping herself this time before touching the bars.

"I don’t know what I’m doing half the time," she admitted quietly.

"I wake up every day terrified."

Harry said nothing.

"I’m terrified when you leave."

Another shaky breath.

"I’m terrified when you come back bloody."

She laughed weakly through tears then covered her mouth immediately after like she regretted it.

"And now I’m terrified you hate me."

Harry looked down at his hands.

The silence stretched.

Not awkward.

Painful.

Sheryl wiped at her eyes quickly.

"You’re my baby," she whispered emotionally.

"I don’t care how tall you get. I don’t care how many guns Bill puts in your hands. I don’t care what this world turns you into."

Harry clenched his jaw harder.

"You’re still my baby."

Something ugly twisted in his chest again.

Because part of him wanted to stay angry.

It was easier.

Anger made things simple.

But hearing her cry through prison bars in some collapsing underground sector while soldiers watched them like animals?

Nothing about that felt simple.

Sheryl finally broke fully then.

"I’m trying to be good at this," she cried softly.

"I’m trying so hard to be a good mommy."

Harry looked away immediately.

That word almost hurt more than everything else.

Mommy.

Not mother.

Not mom.

Mommy.

Like she still remembered the little boy he used to be before infected and guns and Bill and survival poisoned everything.

Her crying quieted into uneven breathing.

"Please," she begged softly.

"Please don’t ignore me."

Harry swallowed hard once.

The guard near the corridor shifted awkwardly, pretending not to listen.

Harry kept staring at the floor.

At the rust near his boots.

At literally anything except her face.

Because if he looked at her too long, the anger became harder to hold onto.

And right now?

Anger was the only thing keeping him together.