Chapter 10: Goodbye.
Perspective: Kiyotaka Ayanokouji.
Ellie's lips were still on mine. There was warmth, a soft but deliberate pressure. Her hand still firm on the back of my neck, her body close to mine. I wasn't breathing too deeply. I let myself be carried along—not by desire, but by observation.
And then, a voice broke the surface:
"Is someone there?"
The echo of that call bounced between the concrete walls. I knew immediately who it was. Jesse.
Ellie pulled away at once, almost like the contact had suddenly burned her.
"Jesse!?" she shouted, her voice betraying the surprise we both felt.
"Are you two okay?" he replied, his voice lowering as he climbed down the metal hatch that creaked under his weight.
I sat back up, unhurried. Ellie was already on her feet, one step away from me, as if trying to hide something. Jesse entered the room and froze at the sight around him—the plants, the smell, our presence.
"Is this a joke...?" he muttered, his face stuck somewhere between surprise and resignation.
I noticed how his eyes shifted from me to Ellie, then back. He didn't say anything else about it. Maybe he didn't want to know more.
"Weren't you two on patrol?" he finally asked, his tone carrying a hint of authority—almost like he was scolding us.
"There's a blizzard outside!" Ellie shot back, a bit impulsive. It wasn't a defense; it was justification.
I didn't answer right away. I just stood up from the couch and grabbed my jacket. The lingering smell of marijuana still clung to the air, thick and heavy.
"Why aren't you at your post?" I asked—not accusing, just looking for an explanation.
Jesse turned his gaze aside for a second, his jaw tightening.
"Because neither Tommy nor Joel showed up," he said, his voice dropping with a heavy weight. It didn't sound like an exaggeration. It was real concern.
My brow tensed slightly. The atmosphere shifted.
"What do you mean?" Ellie asked, a hint of confusion in her tone, as if reality wasn't matching what she had in mind.
"We waited for an hour. I was looking for their horses when I saw lights," Jesse added, his eyes scanning the underground shelter.
"Maybe they went back," Ellie tried, though it sounded more like a hope than a possibility.
"Without a replacement? No," I replied. It didn't align with protocol or with Joel's common sense.
Silence fell briefly. Outside, the wind still howled, though softer than before. A dangerous pause.
"I know you didn't cover much of their zone. We'll split up—each of us takes a different angle," I said, straight to the point. Logic demanded immediate action.
Jesse nodded immediately.
"Okay, you take west, Ellie takes south, and I'll cover east."
Without another word, we left. The place stayed behind. The dense aroma trapped in that basement.
Time Skip.
The faint crunch of snow under the horse's hooves was the only sound breaking the silence in this part of the forest. The storm had calmed, but scattered flakes still drifted lazily, as if unsure where to land.
I rode between tall pines, their branches heavy with white. Moisture was starting to seep through my gloves, and every breath came out visible, forming a brief cloud in front of me. There were no clear signs, but instinct pushed me forward.
Then I saw it: a fenced house, unlike the run-down cabins we usually found along the way. Modern—clean lines, industrial gray paint, treated wood. It didn't belong here, yet it looked untouched.
I stopped at the gate. Charred bodies hung from the bars. Infected. Their skin blackened, deformed. The smell of burnt flesh still lingered through the snow—meaning this was recent.
Circling around, I found the backyard. A side window was open. Poorly closed, or forced. Even with the cold, the inside seemed breathable. I dismounted and approached, drawing my pistol. The metal felt frozen against my fingers, but steady.
I entered cautiously. The interior was silent. A tidy kitchen, no signs of struggle. Further back, a staircase descended. My steps grew heavier as I approached. Each wooden step creaked lightly beneath my boots. Something was wrong.
I stopped before the basement door. Pale blue light filtered through the cracks. I sharpened my ears. Held breaths. Whimpers.
Without thinking further, I kicked the door open.
The scene hit me like a shock.
Ellie was on the ground. Blood smeared across her mouth, a red pool beneath her head. I couldn't make out her features—only the convulsions of her body as she sobbed, shaking weakly, choking on her own tears and blood.
And a few meters beyond—Joel.
Lying on the floor. Motionless. His body bore signs of absurd brutality. His face—destroyed. A grotesque cavity where his skull should have been. Fresh blood still dripping in thin trails. His clothes torn, covered in mud and blood. On the wall behind him, droplets formed an erratic pattern, as if they'd bounced with every blow.
I remained still. My mind began to work like a finely tuned clock. This wasn't the work of infected. Too orderly. Too purposeful.
There were footprints everywhere. At least nine distinct pairs, different depths, different sizes. Tread patterns. Military. Not common hunters. Organized.
In the corner, Tommy. Unconscious, an open bleeding wound on his forehead. The markings were clear: repeated blows with a rifle butt. They didn't want him dead—just out of the way.
"...This was an execution," I muttered.
I heard footsteps. Jesse.
When he entered and saw the scene, he froze abruptly. His face changed instantly. Horror took him without warning. He gasped. He couldn't even speak. He just trembled, like his body refused to believe what his eyes were seeing.
I stepped toward Ellie. She was alive. Her hands were shaking, her mouth and nose stained. The fury behind her tears still burned, a flame ready to consume everything. I crouched beside her slowly. I holstered my pistol.
I looked at her for a few seconds. I didn't say anything immediately. I just observed. She clung to the ground as if letting go would make the rest of her slip away too. And even then…
I picked her up in my arms, carefully. She didn't weigh much.
"You're going to be okay," I told her.
As we left, the blue glow of the basement faded behind us.
…—Days later.
There is no silence heavier than the one left by sudden absence.
Not even in the White Room did I feel a weight this strange, as if the air itself was waiting for someone to speak, but no one dared. Not out of fear, but because the void Joel left is too obvious.
Joel was a point of reference for many here. For me, he was just someone I observed from a distance, but even I can admit that his death destabilized everything. Jackson is on pause, as if time cracked. Patrols continue, shifts are done, doors keep opening and closing.
Tommy hasn't said much. I only saw him once, a bandage on his forehead, leaning on the railing of his house while watching snow fall. His eyes looked like they aged ten years in a night. I don't know if he blames himself—if he thinks he wasn't alert enough, or didn't protect his brother. Joel was more than a brother to him. He was an extension of himself. And when that's ripped away, you no longer know where your skin ends and the emptiness begins.
Jesse tries to be strong. Gives orders with more firmness, keeps his routine, talks more, even jokes with others as if wanting things to go back to normal. But they won't. I saw his face when he found the body. That image doesn't fade. He's a man trying to carry all the weight because if he stops, he'll break. The pressure is crushing him, but he won't allow himself to fall. Maybe that's why he hasn't said a single word about it—he buries everything under work.
And Ellie is no longer here.
Her body is present. She walks, she eats a little. But her mind is still trapped in that basement.
She hasn't spoken much since that day. She barely looks at me when I pass. There's something in her eyes: a contained storm, a rage growing slowly like a silent illness.
I knew her as someone who still kept a bit of light, despite everything she'd been through. Not now. She doesn't cry in front of anyone. She doesn't scream. She doesn't break anything. She doesn't collapse. That alone proves she's destroyed.
Because when someone doesn't react, it's because they're waiting for the right moment to. And that moment will be violent.
Jackson, as a community, feels it. There's less music at night. Fewer children playing in the streets. Conversations are short, eyes turn away. Joel's death wasn't just an individual loss—it was a blow to the system, to the structure he helped reinforce.
I wonder if this is what humans call grief. An emotional adaptation process to irreversible loss. I never fully understood it. In the White Room, loss was just numbers. If someone disappeared, another number replaced it.
And here, the consequences are clear: Joel's death will be a spark. A trigger. I don't know if for Ellie, for Tommy, or for someone else. But what's certain is that this won't end here.
Snow crunched faintly under my boots as I stood leaning against the backrest of a bench covered in a thin layer of frost. There wasn't much wind, but the air was cold, dry, enough to remind anyone that everything was quiet. Ellie was there, in front of the grave, crouched as if the whole world had shrunk to that small mound of frozen earth. She wasn't speaking, but her body did: tension in her shoulders, fingers sinking into loose dirt, her lowered gaze as if searching for Joel beneath the soil, among the invisible remnants of what used to be a home.
From where I stood, I could clearly see the letters carved on the headstone: JOEL MILLER. Joel had been someone capable of surviving in this world, and even more—of imposing his will on it. He was someone who killed out of conviction, who carried burdens others couldn't bear.
There's something admirable in that. His ruthlessness, his ability to decide without bending to conventional morality.
A man like that doesn't leave a void—he leaves a shadow. And Ellie knows it.
She's wearing her usual green jacket, a bit worn, the seams frayed at the elbows. Her jeans are stained with melted snow and dried mud. She still has a cut on her cheek—a slash crossing her face as if trying to mark the memory of what happened. Her lip is still split, though the blood has dried. There's a bruise under her left eye. They don't just show that she fought. They show she resisted.
Her will is still burning, but anger is a fire that consumes what it protects. The way she looks at the grave isn't someone who has accepted loss. It's someone who still wants something.
She stands slowly, wiping her fingers on the sleeve of her jacket. She walks toward me without fully raising her head until finally her voice—hoarse and low—breaks the silence.
"Before we go… I want to stop by his house."
I nod.
We began walking through the snow, leaving the grave behind. She walked ahead, her steps looking steady even if her soul wasn't. I followed her, silently going over what was already inevitable: we were going to Seattle.
Tommy was the one who gave us the lead. The patches on the uniforms of the soldiers who killed him belonged to a military division based in Seattle, Washington. A faint clue, but a valid one.
Ellie wants revenge.
I want to see how Ellie unfolds.
I want to see whether pain strengthens her or corrupts her.
I want to see how far a person can go when their only reason to live is to return the pain they received.
Tommy tries to be strong, but the sadness on his face when he spoke to us betrayed him. He's broken too, but unlike Ellie, he isn't looking to lash out. He only wants justice.
I'm still here because this is evolution in real time. Humans stripped of their structures, pushed to the edge, forced to make choices that will destroy them or define them.
The snow keeps falling, and our steps lead us toward that silent house—the last place Joel lived.
The morning sun filtered timidly through the clouds, washing the frozen treetops in pale gold.
I watched Ellie walk beside me, her hands in the pockets of her jacket, her gaze lost ahead. Her brow was slightly furrowed, as if each step brought her closer to a weight she didn't want to carry but knew she had to. The rhythm of her boots was steady, determined.
"Tommy closed the stables this morning," I finally said, without looking directly. My voice came out neutral, without judgment. "There won't be any horses available."
She didn't answer right away. She only blinked, as if the news didn't surprise her, but irritated her.
"Why?" she asked, with a trace of restrained frustration, without slowing down.
"I suppose he thinks that'll stop us."
"It won't."
Her tone was dry, sharp. Like a cold slap. She didn't say it with anger. She said it with certainty. Like someone who already made a decision no one could change. I didn't add anything.
Joel's house appeared as we turned a corner. A two-story structure, old wood but well kept.
Flowers piled up on the porch. Dozens of bouquets, some newly placed, others already wilted. There were letters carefully tucked between pots, children's drawings, even a guitar with broken strings leaning against the wall. Everything spoke of who Joel had been to Jackson.
Ellie stopped a few steps from the entrance. Her breath was visible, slow but uneven. She reached toward the door, but didn't touch it. Her hand hovered there, her fingers trembling slightly mid-air. For the first time on the walk, I saw something different in her: fear. Not fear of pain or a fight. Fear of what she would find inside. Of what would remind her of what was gone.
I said nothing. I didn't encourage or comfort her. I just watched.
Finally, with a small tremor in her jaw, Ellie opened the door.
A warm atmosphere wrapped around us instantly. The smell was clear, almost intact, as if Joel had just stepped out for a moment: fresh coffee, some bread, maybe bacon. An impossible mix, yes, but lingering.
We crossed the threshold, and she stopped just inside.
"Stay here," she murmured without looking at me, her voice low but firm.
I nodded once and stood beside the wooden table. My fingers traced its edge gently. I noticed a faint ink stain, almost invisible. Details that say a lot—if you're willing to look.
Ellie went upstairs without speaking again. Her steps were slow, dragging. As if every step cost more than the last. I knew she wasn't going up out of curiosity. She was going for what mattered.
…
Not even five minutes had passed since Ellie went up when I heard the door open again. I barely turned my head. It was Maria. She closed it quietly behind her, as if she didn't want the sound to disturb anything except the air.
She walked toward the center of the room without saying a word. She carried a folded note in her hand. Her face was more serious than usual. There was no anger. Just a deep weariness, the kind that doesn't come from the body, but the soul.
She stood there, not looking at anything in particular. Her eyes wandered through the room, as if recognizing a house that had once belonged to her too, even if she had never lived in it.
After a long silence, she spoke without looking at me.
"Tell Ellie to come down."
I nodded silently.
"Ellie," I said, raising my voice just enough for her to hear upstairs. "Maria's here. She wants to see you."
There was no immediate response. After a few seconds, I heard footsteps. She came down the stairs, carrying nothing in her hands, but from the shape of her jacket, I assumed she had a weapon tucked in her waistband. She didn't say anything when she saw Maria. She just walked to the table.
Maria unfolded the note carefully. Her hands were steady. She began reading, without looking at either of us:
"Maria. I'm heading to Seattle.
I wish I could forget, but I can't.
I have to get justice.
Ellie will try to follow me.
Stop her.
Take her weapons.
Lock up the horses.
Lock her up.
Buy me time to finish this.
With love, always,
Tommy."
Silence fell over the three of us. The kind of silence that weighs, that can't be filled with words. Ellie lowered her head a little, but only for a second. Then she lifted it again, with resolve.
"You can't stop me," she said, without raising her voice. It wasn't a threat. It was a promise.
Maria sighed. She ran a hand through her hair, tense, holding back emotions. She didn't reply immediately.
"He's going to get himself killed," she finally said.
Maria looked away. Her expression shifted just slightly. It wasn't defeat. It was resignation.
The room fell quiet again.
"The horses will be ready in half an hour," she said softly. "I'll give you supplies. But only if you swear you'll bring my husband back in one piece."
Ellie didn't answer.
Maria didn't insist. She turned to me.
"And you?"
The question was simple.
"Yes."
The answer was too.
She studied me for one more second, searching for something in my eyes.
But she would never find anything.
…
End of Chapter.