They walk in silence for half a block.
Julian's ribs ache with every breath, his cheek already swelling, the skin tight and sore where the bone presses beneath it.
The woman moves like she owns the street, rebar loose in one hand, eyes scanning rooftops, alleys, and burned-out cars.
Julian glances back, the unconscious man is still there, face-down, not moving.
"Shouldn't we—" he starts.
"No." her voice cuts clean through the smoky air.
"He's still alive, we could—"
She stops, turns, and looks at him like he just suggested they swim through glass.
"You want to go back?"
Julian opens his mouth, then closes it.
Do I?
His hands are shaking, the adrenaline's wearing off and everything hurts: his head, his face, his shoulder where he hit the ground.
"You couldn't handle one guy," she says, flat and matter-of-fact, "what happens when that bastard comes back with his friends?"
Julian looks at his feet, she's right, of course she's right.
"Thought so." she turns and keeps walking.
Julian follows, his legs heavy, like someone filled his bones with wet sand.
They turn a corner, passing a convenience store with its front window completely gone, shelves stripped bare, a shopping cart overturned in the doorway.
"You're weak," she says, still not looking at him, "plainly average, if you want to survive, you need to be somewhere that'll take you in."
"Take me in?"
"Yeah," she says, adjusting her grip on the rebar, "because you're useless to me."
The words land like a slap.
Julian's jaw tightens, he wants to argue, to say something, to prove her wrong, but what's he going to say?
I tried boxing once? I work in accounting? I'm really good at Excel?
He keeps his mouth shut.
They walk another two blocks, the destruction getting worse, a car's flipped on its side, its tires still smoking, someone's spray-painted FUCK THE GOVERNMENT across a brick wall in red letters three feet tall.
The woman stops in front of a house.
It's small, single-story, windows boarded up with sheets of plywood, the front door reinforced with metal bars bolted into the frame, sandbags stacked along the base.
"Here," she says.
Julian stares at the barricades, "who lives here?"
"A family, the mom was a teacher before everything went to shit," she walks up to the door and bangs on it three times with the rebar, "they're smart, careful, got supplies."
"And they'll just let me in?"
She shrugs, "maybe, after I ask, you're on your own."
Julian's stomach twists.
There's movement behind the door, a shadow shifting between the plywood gaps.
"Who is it?" a woman's voice asks, cautious and tired.
"It's Kara," the woman with the rebar says, "I've got someone with me, he needs a place."
Silence, then whispering, low and urgent.
A man's voice rises, angry, "are you fucking serious right now?"
More whispering, the woman's voice trying to calm him down.
"What's wrong with him?" the woman inside asks.
Kara glances at Julian, expression unreadable, "got his ass kicked trying to be a hero, he's harmless."
"Harmless?" the man snaps, "you expect us to believe that? We don't know this guy, we don't know you."
"David—" the woman starts.
"No, I'm done with this, every time we open that door, we're risking our kids, you get that?"
Julian's chest tightens, he can hear children now, small voices asking questions, the woman shushing them.
Kara doesn't react, just waits.
The argument inside gets louder, the man's voice rising, something about trust, strangers, what happened to the Millers down the street.
"I don't care if he's dying," the man says, "we're not—"
"He'll die out there," the woman interrupts, firm now.
"That's not our problem."
"David."
"I said no."
Kara turns to leave.
Julian's breath catches, "wait—"
She looks at him, eyes flat, "told you, you're on your own now."
"But—"
The locks start turning, slowly, one at a time.
Kara stops.
The door opens a crack, just enough for Julian to see half a face: a woman, maybe late thirties, dark hair pulled back, eyes red from exhaustion.
She looks at Julian, then at Kara.
Behind her, the man's still talking, his voice harsh.
"Sarah, don't you dare—"
"One night," she says quietly, to Julian, "that's all."
The man appears behind her, tall, unshaven, holding a baseball bat.
"The hell it is," he steps fully into view, knuckles white around the handle.
"Sarah, close the door."
She doesn't move.
"David, he's hurt."
"I don't give a shit," David's eyes lock on Julian, hard and measuring, "we have two kids in here, you think I'm letting some random bleeding stranger into our house?"
Julian raises his hands slowly, palms out, "I'm not here to cause trouble."
"Yeah? That's what the last guy said, right before he tried to steal our water."
Sarah touches David's arm, he shakes her off.
"How do we know Kara didn't just pick up some desperate asshole who'll slit our throats the second we fall asleep?"
Kara leans against the doorframe, still holding the rebar, "if I wanted you dead, David, I'd do it myself."
David's jaw tightens, "that's not reassuring."
"It's honest."
Behind them, the kids whisper, one asking if the man outside is hurt, the other saying something about blood.
Sarah glances back at them, then at Julian.
"He can sleep in the garage," she says, "we lock the door between the house and garage, he stays there, one night."
"Sarah—"
"We're not letting him die on our doorstep."
David's grip shifts on the bat, eyes narrowing, "one night, but if he tries anything—"
"He won't," Kara says.
David looks at her, then at Julian, "you better pray she's right."
He steps back but doesn't lower the bat.
Sarah opens the door wider, just enough for Julian to slip through sideways.
The hallway smells like canned soup and sweat, a single candle burns on a small table, throwing uneven shadows across the walls.
Two kids stand in a doorway to the left: the girl's maybe nine, dark hair like her mother's, the boy younger, six or seven, clutching a stuffed dog with one ear missing.
They stare at Julian like he's something that crawled out of the rubble.
"It's okay," Sarah says softly, "go back to your room."
The girl doesn't move.
"Is he going to stay?"
"Just tonight, Maya."
"But Dad said—"
"I know what Dad said," Sarah's tone sharpens, "room, now."
The girl takes her brother's hand and they disappear into the dark.
David blocks the hallway leading deeper into the house, bat still raised.
"Garage is through there," he says, nodding toward a door on the right, "you don't come out until morning, you don't knock, you don't ask for anything, understood?"
Julian nods.
"Say it."
"I understand."
David doesn't move.
Sarah steps past him and opens the garage door, the hinges squeal.
Inside, it's cold and empty except for a few cardboard boxes stacked against one wall and a torn sleeping bag on the concrete floor.
"There's a bucket in the corner," Sarah says, "if you need to, you know."
Julian's face warms, "thanks."
She studies him, eyes tracing the blood on his temple, the swelling on his cheek, the way he holds his ribs.
"You really tried to save someone?"
Julian hesitates, did he, or did he just not know when to walk away?
"I tried," he says quietly.
Sarah's expression softens, just a fraction, "that's more than most people are doing right now."
She steps back into the hallway.
David's still there, watching.
"One night," he says again, "then you're gone."
Sarah closes the door.
Julian hears the locks turn: one, two, three.
He's alone.
The garage is dark except for a thin strip of grey light seeping through a crack in the boarded window, he can hear voices through the door, David's angry and low, Sarah's calm and steady.
Julian sinks down onto the sleeping bag, his legs giving out halfway so he drops the last few inches, pain flaring through his shoulder.
He touches his face, the blood's dry now, the skin crusted, his cheek burning like someone pressed hot coals beneath it.
Useless.
Kara's voice echoes in his head.
Plainly average.
She's right.
He couldn't save that guy, couldn't fight, couldn't even convince a scared family to trust him without someone else vouching.
What the hell is he supposed to do now?
Outside, something crashes, metal on metal, then shouting.
Not close, a few blocks away, maybe.
Julian holds his breath.
The shouting gets louder, closer.
Then a gunshot.
Julian's heart stops.
He waits.
Another shot, then nothing.
The silence feels heavier than the noise.
He pulls the sleeping bag around his shoulders, it smells like mildew and gasoline.
Through the door, he hears Maya's voice, small and scared.
"Daddy, what was that?"
David's answer is too low to hear.
Julian closes his eyes, his head throbs, his face throbs, everything throbs.
He's so tired.
But he doesn't sleep.
Outside, the city burns.