Finn | The Apocalypse

The campfire's heat was a dull glow against Finn’s back, but the chill that shot through him had nothing to do with the morning mist.

One second he was counting push-ups in the dirt, the burn in his arms a familiar anchor, the next, Matty was stumbling into the clearing with a bundle in his arms. Finn dropped, chest heaving, and stared.

It wasn’t the shape. It was the details.

The way the wet fabric clung to curves that were all wrong for a man. The length of the hair. The delicate line of a jaw, smooth and unmarred by stubble.

A woman.

The word didn’t form so much as it detonated in the primal core of his brain, short-circuiting every other thought. It wasn’t a conscious recognition; it was a tectonic shift in his reality. His blue eyes, wide and unblinking, tracked Matty’s every clumsy, gentle movement as the boy laid her down by the fire like she was spun glass.

She’s real. Flesh and blood. And she’s... here.

The camp erupted into tense, hushed chaos around him, but it felt distant, muffled, like he was hearing it through water. Marcus’s grim pragmatism, Doc’s whispered awe, Leon’s calculating silence—it was all just noise. The only thing in sharp focus was her.

He finally moved, rising from his crouch to lean against a moss-eaten concrete pillar. His posture was casual, but every muscle was coiled tight.

“A Stray? Here?” Marcus growled, rifle half-raised. Idiot. If she was a threat, she’d have sprung it by now. “It’s a trap. Or she’s bait.”

Finn’s lip curled. Of course Vance sees a weapon or a liability. The dude is ready to shoot his own shadow.

Doc was already fussing, his old man’s hands surprisingly steady as he checked her. “Dear Lord... Malnourished, hypothermic likely...”

“She’s a woman,” Finn corrected, his voice lower, rougher than he intended. It wasn’t just a statement. It was a claim, a revelation spoken aloud. A real, live woman. The words tasted strange. Sacred. He couldn’t stop looking. The rise and fall of her chest under the blanket Doc laid over her was the most fascinating thing he’d ever witnessed.

Leon’s commands cut through his daze. “Jax, perimeter. Now. Vance, high ground. Finn, with him.”

He moved on autopilot, following Marcus up a rubble-strewn incline to a vantage point overlooking the dead forest and the stream. But his gaze kept snagging back down to the camp, to the small form by the fire. Matty hadn’t moved from her side. The boy was just... Staring, his face a mask of stunned tenderness.

Look at him. Puppy with his first bone. He doesn’t know what to do with that.

The argument from below floated up, heated whispers sharp in the cold air.

“We can’t keep her,” Marcus insisted. “She’s a liability. Drains resources, attracts attention. Every gang for fifty miles would sell their souls for a tip on a Stray.”

He’s not wrong, a cold, survivalist part of Finn’s mind conceded. But it was drowned out by a louder, more insistent voice. Mine.

“We cannot leave a human being to die, Marcus,” Doc retorted. “Especially not... her.”

Leon’s voice, the deciding one, was grim. “She changes everything. The risk profile is astronomical.”

Finn watched Matty then. Saw the boy’s hand lift, saw those clumsy, medic’s fingers brush a strand of hair from her cheek with a reverence that made Finn’s gut twist. A hot, sharp spike—something ugly and competitive—jabbed under his ribs.

He couldn’t hear Matty’s whisper, but he saw his lips move. Saw the protective hunch of his shoulders.

“She is not a ‘morale boost’,” Leon was saying down below, responding to something Finn had half-consciously muttered earlier.

The hell she’s not, Finn thought, a slow, feral grin spreading across his face. But it was more than that. It was a target. A purpose. Something his to guard, to provide for, to... Possess.

The decision was made without him. They were keeping her. Doc’s medical authority and Leon’s lingering shred of pre-fall ethics won out over Marcus’s cold logic. A tent was erected—Matty’s tent, because of course it was—and she was moved inside, out of the wind.

Finn did his part. He checked traps, scouted the immediate tree line, his senses hyper-alert. But his mind was in that tent.

As dusk bled into a deep, starless night, the camp was quiet. Leon and Marcus were poring over maps by a shaded lantern, their voices low. Doc was snoring softly in his bedroll. Jax was on first watch. Matty, exhausted from his vigil, had finally been ordered to sleep by his father and had collapsed onto a bedroll not far from the tent, dead to the world.

This was his chance.

Finn moved like the predator he was. Silent, low to the ground, using the shadows cast by the truck and the rubble. He passed Matty’s sleeping form, a flicker of contempt in his gaze. Sleepin' while she’s right there. Fool.

He paused at the tent flap, his heart doing a strange, hard knock against his ribs. He could hear her breathing inside. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, then slowly peeled back the canvas just enough to slip inside.

Finn crouched there, just inside the entrance, suddenly unsure. The confidence that propelled him here seemed to evaporate in the intimate dark. What do I say? ‘Hello, I’m Finn. I could kill a Brute with a rock.’ He almost snorted at himself.

He crept closer on his knees, the dirt silent beneath him. He could see her profile now in the faint glow of the distant, shielded fire that leaked through the canvas.

He was mesmerized. Up close, the reality of her was almost overwhelming. The arch of an eyebrow. The soft shell of her ear. He’d forgotten women could look like this. Not hardened, not scarred, not looking at him with fear or calculation. Just... Existing. It was a kind of magic.

She’s so... soft. Everywhere. How does anything not just break her?

Without thinking, driven by a need more basic than thought, he leaned in closer. He closed his eyes and inhaled, very gently, near her hair. It didn't smell like the Wasteland. It smelled like the stream water and something else, something inherently her that he had no name for. He held the scent in his lungs like it was pure oxygen.

He stayed there for a long moment, just breathing her in, a strange calm settling over his usual frenetic energy. Then, he shifted, sitting cross-legged beside her bedroll, his large frame making the small tent feel even smaller. He waited, his gaze a physical weight on her.

"Hey," he said finally, his voice a low, rough rumble in the dark, trying to sound casual and landing somewhere between a whisper and a growl. "You gonna sleep through the whole end of the world, beauty?"

He shifted his weight, making the muscles in his arms and shoulders flex under his worn shirt. It wasn’t a conscious thought; it was pure, clumsy instinct. A display.

The sun was a pale, watery disc in a sky the color of dirty wool. The truck’s tires hummed over cracked asphalt, the landscape a blur of skeletal trees and the occasional husk of a pre-fall town. In the cab, crammed between supply crates and weary bodies, a sound was fighting its way out of Finn’s chest.

It was less singing and more tuneless, confident growling, syncopated to the static-laced melody leaking from the truck’s salvaged radio. Wave 143. A man’s voice, smooth and from another universe, crooned about sunshine and lasting love.

“...a-and I’ll be your shh-helter through the rain...” Finn mangled, his striking blue eyes locked unblinkingly on the young woman huddled near the window. Her—the Stray. Matty’s find. Three days ago, pulled half-drowned from a silt-choked creek, and since then, she’d been wrapped in blankets and gentle words from Doc and, especially, from Matty. It made a hot, restless itch spread under Finn’s skin.

He leaned his shoulder against the vibrating doorframe, flexing the corded muscle of his arm as he reached for a nonexistent high note. “...through all the game—uh, fuck—pa-ain, I’ll never let you go-o...”

“For God’s sake, Finn,” Marcus’s gravelly voice cut through from the driver’s seat. The older man didn’t turn, but his scarred knuckles whitened on the wheel. “You’re scaring the wildlife. And the rest of us.”

Finn grinned, unoffended. “Just setin’ a mood, Marcus.” His gaze slid back to her. She’s listening. Or she’s trying not to. Still somethin’.

Leon, riding shotgun, peered at the cracked GPS unit. “The depot’s another twenty clicks. We push through in one go. But we take an hour here. Stretch, check the truck, see if this station has any un-pilfered coolant or sealant. We’re leaking something.”

The truck rumbled to a halt beside the gutted remains of a gas station, its signage a ghost of bright colors. The 'Quick-Stop' logo was barely legible. Everyone began to disembble, a well-practiced routine of wary glances and checking weapons.

Finn hopped down, rolling his shoulders. He was about to ask Jax for a drag when a cold knot tightened in his gut. He did a quick headcount. Leon, Marcus, Jax, Doc, Matty...

Where is she?

His head snapped around, scanning the scrubby tree line, the shattered pump islands, the dark maw of the station's missing door. Nothing. A raw, panicked fear, sharper than any Banshee’s scream, lanced through him. Strays didn’t just wander off. They got taken. Or they found things that found them.

“Hey,” he barked, the word too loud. Matty and Doc looked up. “Our girl. You see her?”

Matty’s face went pale. “She was right here, she just—”

Finn didn’t wait. He was already moving, breaking into a low, silent run towards the station entrance, his knife in his hand. Idiots. All of ‘em. Should’ve had someone on her. Should’ve been me.

He paused at the threshold, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom, every sense screaming. And then his heart gave a single, hard thump of relief so violent it felt like a punch.

She was inside. Alive. Unharmed.

She stood perfectly still in the murky light filtering through filthy windows. She wasn’t facing a threat. She was staring at the wall behind what had once been a counter. A large, faded sign, its colors bleached to ghosts. A smiling woman with impossible hair held up a tube of something. ‘LUXE COLOR – LASTING BEAUTY’ the peeling letters promised.

Finn slowly let out the breath he was holding. He leaned against a toppled rack of oxidized motor oil, trying to look like he’d meant to find her here, his pulse still hammering in his throat.

“See somethin’ you like, beauty?” He asked, his voice a rough scrape.

He pushed off the rack and ambled closer, his eyes never leaving her. He stopped too close, invading the careful distance Matty and Doc always kept.

“Ain’t much left that’s pretty,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the ruined store. “ ‘Cept you, standin’ here.” Good. That was a good phrase. Just like in the morning song. Lastin’ beauty.

He scanned the nearby shelves, covered in dust and rodent droppings. His eyes caught a glint of metal. A single can, dented but intact, tucked behind a pile of collapsed drywall. He snagged it, wiping the grime with his thumb. A faded label showed a blurry peach half.

“Jackpot,” he murmured. He hooked a finger under the ring-pull, the muscles in his forearm bunching, and with a short, effortless crack-psst, the can was open. The scent of sugary, preserved fruit cut through the dust, impossibly sweet. He held it out to her, a peace offering, a proof of skill.

“Here. Better’n protein paste. Sugar’s good for gettin’ your strength back.” He watched her face, desperate for a reaction. He needed her to see him, not as part of the group, but as Finn. The one who found her. The one with the peaches.

She’s lookin’ at that old world thing. She knows it? Or she’s just curious? What’s she thinkin’? He was used to people who were simple — scavengers who wanted food, fighters who wanted ammo, men who wanted dominance. She was a closed box, and he had no key, only this dumb, aching need to pry it open. He wasn't good with words, but maybe... With actions. With things he could give.

“You want that stuff? The... color stuff?” He squinted at the word. “Makeup. Ain’t seen any that wasn’t powder or poison for years. But,” he added, puffing his chest out just a little, “I’m a good tracker. If there’s a sealed box of it in some old mall, I could find it. For you.”

Just say somethin’. Look at me. See me holdin’ this can. See I got it open easy. See I’m thinkin’ about what you want. The thoughts tumbled in his head, clumsy as his flirting.

The rocking of the truck was annoying. Their destination was a fortified outpost rumored to hold pre-Fall military archives. Leon called it a ‘resupply and intelligence point’. Finn barely listened to him, thinking about the food there.

The world outside the truck was a blur of decaying grey, but inside, Finn’s world had narrowed to a single, infuriating point: the space between Matty’s shoulder and her. The golden boy was doing it again — leaning in, creating little shelters with his body, speaking in that soft, careful voice that made Finn’s teeth grind. He’s treatin' her like a page from one of Doc’s stupid books. Like she’ll tear.

Finn, crammed against the door, felt every shift of the truck translate through her. He caught her scent cutting through the truck’s usual stink of sweat and oil. It did something to him, a sharp pull in his gut. He had to make her see. See him.

He leaned forward, his disfigured left ear toward the noise of the engine, his good one tuned to her. “See that ridge?” he said, his voice louder than necessary, his arm draping across the seatback behind her. He felt the heat of her through the thin material of her shirt. Close. Good. “Scouted there last year. Found a cache of old-world chocolate. Melted to hell, but still sweet. You like sweet things, right?”

Offer. Provide. That’s how you do it. He watched her profile, hoping for a glance, a smile.

Instead, Matty called back to Doc about some pre-Fall noise-makers. Of course.

Doc’s voice crackled over the engine noise, a dry, warm sound. “The Beatles, Matty. Pre-Fall, pre-everything. Four lads from Liverpool. Made music that could make you feel like the sun was shining even in the perpetual rain.”

Finn snorted, his blue eyes rolling. “Sounds like noise. Give me a workin' engine any day.” The teasing was more reflex than sincere. Finn loved music, especially about love. But the reality was stronger. An engine keeps you alive. Music just reminds you of what you’ve lost.

“An engine doesn’t soothe the soul, boy,” Doc chided gently.

“Soul’s a luxury,” Marcus grunted from the front, not turning around.

Then Leon slammed the brakes. Finn’s body went taut before his mind caught up, years of instinct overriding thought. “Contact!”

Brutes. A shambling wall of them. The order came sharp and clear: “Finn, cover the left flank.”

Got it. He was moving before the words finished, the familiar, predatory calm settling over him like a second skin. The door swung open, the damp, rotten-vegetation smell of the Brutes flooding in. He hit the gravel, shotgun coming up. Crack. Thud. A Brute’s chest exploded. Crack. Thud. Another knee shattered, buying Marcus time. The metallic smell of rot mixed with the stench of wet earth.

But his eyes, against all tactical sense, flicked back to the truck. To the open door on Matty’s side.

He saw Matty turn, not into a fighter, but into a human shield. Curling his body around her, his arm a bar across her front. He’s coverin' her. Good. A twisted part of Finn approved. But should be out here, helpin' clear the threat, not just hiding her. He fired again, the shotgun’s kick a comforting jolt.

Then he heard it. The distinct, sickening crack of safety glass failing. Not a gunshot. An impact.

His head snapped around.

A Brute was at Matty’s window, its fist rising and falling. The glass webbed. Inside, he saw Matty’s pale, determined face, saw him pressing her down, into his shoulder. Protecting. He’s... actually protecting.

The sharp report of Matty’s pistol from inside the cab was muffled but unmistakable. The Brute fell back.

She’s in the line of fire. In a metal box. With broken glass.

Leon’s and Marcus’s shouts, Jax’s controlled bursts from the truck bed—it all faded into a roaring in Finn’s good ear. The left side of his head, the scarred, deaf side, felt like it was burning with remembered pain—the Banshee’s teeth, the rip, the silence. But this was worse. This was a slow, creeping terror that froze his blood.

She’s in there. They’re breaking in.

The order was to cover the left flank. He’d dropped two, maybe three. The immediate threat was suppressed. Logic said hold position.

Logic evaporated.

Finn abandoned his post. He moved not with stealth, but with raw, panicked speed, boots churning the gravel. A Brute reached for him from the right; he didn’t break stride, swinging the butt of his shotgun into its face with a wet crunch. He didn’t wait to see it fall.

He reached the passenger side door just as Marcus gunned the engine, the truck lurching forward, finally breaking through the thinning cordon of infected. Finn yanked the door open and threw himself inside, slamming it shut on the receding chaos.

The cab was a tomb of adrenaline and cordite. Marcus was driving, Leon scanning ahead. Doc was muttering in the back. And in the middle...

Matty had one arm still around her, his other hand, trembling violently, was fumbling in a medical kit at his feet. “Water,” Matty was stammering, his voice thin. “Just need... The flask...”

The golden boy, shaking, not holding her tight enough, not possessing her in the way that mattered. The fear that had been a cold knot in Finn’s stomach exploded into a white-hot need.

“Move,” Finn growled, the word more animal than language.

He didn’t wait. He shoved past Matty’s searching form, his own hands—usually so sure, so capable—were shaking as badly as Matty’s.

His hands closed around her upper arms, and he pulled. It wasn’t gentle. It was a raw, claiming motion, yanking her from Matty’s loose, shocked grasp and into the space between the seats, then against his own chest.

He wrapped himself around her, one arm a steel band across her back, the other hand coming up to cradle the back of her head, pressing her face into the hollow of his neck where his pulse hammered like a trapped bird. He buried his nose in her hair, inhaling deeply, past the gun smoke, searching for that clean scent of soap, for the living warmth of her skin.

Alive. Unbit. Whole.

A full-body tremble wracked him. He held her so tightly he feared he might bruise her, but he couldn’t loosen his grip. The image of the Brute at the window, the sound of breaking glass, played on a loop behind his eyes. It mixed with older, darker memories: his mother’s final scream, the rending sound of a different kind of violence.

A hot, traitorous sting pricked at the corners of his eyes. He squeezed them shut, gritting his teeth so hard his jaw ached. No. No no no. Not ever. But the relief was a physical pain, a shuddering release of a tension he hadn’t even known he was holding.

He just held her, trembling, his breath coming in ragged gusts against her hair, his entire being focused on the feel of her, safe, in his arms. The truck bounced on, leaving the dead behind.

"...Like hell I'm going to leave you alone again," he croaks into her hair quietly. I'll fucking handcuff her to me and never let her go again.

His lips pressed roughly against her forehead for a long time.

The others in the cab were silent, the weight of Finn’s raw, unvarnished panic filling the space louder than any gunshot had. And only Matty's gaze expressed an unusual rage for him, his fists clenched around the bottle.

The air inside the outpost’s main bunker was a strange mix of mildew, boiled vegetables, and the sharp, clean scent of chemical disinfectant. After the shuddering, rusted confines of the truck and the metallic stench of the fight, it felt almost sterile. Finn, his hair still damp from the shower, the grime of the wasteland scrubbed from his skin for the first time in weeks, moved through the low-ceilinged corridors with a predator’s lazy grace. The hot water had loosened muscles knotted with constant tension, but it had done nothing to quiet the frantic drumbeat in his chest that had started the moment he’d seen that Brute’s fist smash through the truck window.

She was right there. Behind the glass. With Matty just standing there.

He pushed the thought away, focusing on the goal. He knew where she was. Doc had mentioned the mess hall, a repurposed storage room with a few mismatched tables. Finn’s boots were silent on the worn concrete as he approached the open doorway, pausing just outside the frame to look in.

There she was. Sitting alone at a scarred metal table, under the flickering glow of a single solar-charged bulb. In her hands was a dented tin, and on her face, a look of such pure, unguarded focus that it made his breath catch. She was eating the peaches. His peaches. The can he’d risked a Banshee’s swipe for in a collapsed grocery store two weeks back, saved for a moment that felt special. Seeing the golden syrup glistening on her lips, the careful way she held the spoon... a wave of possessive pleasure, hot and solid, settled in his gut.

She likes ‘em. Good. Gotta keep her fed. Gotta keep her... here.

He stepped into the room, the space feeling smaller instantly with his height. He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms, letting her see him. “Told you they were the good stuff,” he said, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. He nodded toward the can. “Found ‘em behind what was left of a counter. Almost got my ear chewed off for ‘em.” A grin tugged at his mouth, not quite reaching his eyes, which were fixed on her with unnerving intensity.

He pushed off the wall and closed the distance in a few strides, the scent of woodsmoke and cheap, harsh soap trailing him. Without asking, he pulled out the rickety chair beside her and spun it around, straddling it so his arms rested on the back. He was close. Too close by any old-world standard, his knee brushing against her leg under the table. He couldn’t help it. The need to touch, to confirm she was real and solid and unharmed, was a physical ache.

“Shower’s good, right?” he said, leaning forward. His clear blue eyes scanned her face, looking for any sign of the terror from the truck. “Got all the... grit off.” His own memory supplied the image then, unbidden: the Brute’s rotting face at the window, Matty shoving her behind him, wet ground buckling under his own weight as he’d run, knife in hand, to find her. The way he’d wrenched her from Matty’s arms and crushed her against his chest, his face buried in her hair, his whole body trembling. He’d almost wept. The shame of that near-weakness was a cold stone in his throat.

No. Gotta be strong. Gotta be useful. Can’t lose her like...

He shoved the memory of his mother’s final scream back into the dark. Instead, he focused on the now. On her. His gaze dropped to her hands holding the spoon. Small. Fine-boned. Fragile.

“You done with that?” he asked, not waiting for an answer before he gently took the empty can from her, his fingers brushing hers. A jolt went through him at the contact. He set the can aside with a clatter and leaned in even closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur.

“Look,” he started, his tone leaving no room for argument. “What happened today... can’t happen again. Matty’s heart’s in the right place, maybe, but he’s a damn shield made of paper. You need to know how to handle yourself.” He leaned in a little, his blue eyes intent on hers. “I’m gonna teach you. Knife first. Then the slingshot. Quiet. Efficient.” His thumb rubbed a small circle on her shoulder through her shirt. Like touching sun-warmed stone. So different.

He let the statement hang, his gaze dropping to her mouth for a second before flicking back up. The flirtation was as clumsy and inevitable as his next breath. A slow, lopsided smile tugged at his lips, showing a hint of teeth. His other hand came up, calloused fingers brushing a non-existent speck from her cheek before he gently, playfully, took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting her face just a fraction towards his.

“So,” he murmured, the confident alpha male performance back in full force, though his heart was doing a funny rhythm against his ribs. “I found the peaches. I’m gonna make you deadlier than a cornered Banshee.” He raised an eyebrow, the grin turning wicked. “What do I get for the peaches, beauty? Hmm? How ‘bout a kiss?”

The hallway was a cage. Finn leaned against the cold, peeling paint, the concrete biting through his threadbare shirt. He’d heard the muffled, tinny music from Doc’s old portable speaker. An old love song from Wave 143, something about a moon and a June. Finn usually loved this music and sang along clumsily. Right now, he hated the unknown person who was putting this shit all over the world. Sentimental garbage. But his jaw was clenched so tight it ached.

The hallway was narrow, military-issue beige paint peeling to reveal concrete beneath. The air smelled of old dust, antiseptic, and the faint, ever-present tang of the world outside the walls. At least some kind of security and the opportunity to breathe without analyzing shadows.

Finn’d watched Matty scurry in there like an excited rabbit an hour ago. The door had clicked shut, and the quiet murmur of voices had started. Finn had been right there, pretending to check the tension on his bootlaces for the tenth time, his good ear straining.

He’s in there with her. Alone. Talking in that soft voice. Touching her, probably. Holding her delicate fucking hands.

The image was a hot coal in his gut. He’d seen the way Matty looked at her—like she’d hung the damn moon in a sky full of rot. It was a look Finn didn’t know how to replicate. But he’d left a perfect, unblemished apple on her bedroll that morning, its red skin a shocking luxury. He’d caught her scent on the air when she passed—something clean, like soap and her own skin—and it had short-circuited his brain for a full minute.

Then the music had changed. A slower song. And the sounds from the room... Shifting feet, a soft, breathless laugh from her. They were dancing.

He’s dancing with her. His hands on her. The coal in his gut became a furnace. He saw it in his mind, clear as day: Matty’s clumsy, gentle hands on her waist, her small form tucked against him, that look of rapt, tender attention on her face.

He’d almost stormed in. He tapped a furious, silent rhythm on his thigh with his fingers, his teeth grinding. He’s gonna ruin her. With his softness. Make her think the world isn’t teeth and claws. Get her killed with his fucking poetry.

The music stopped. The door clicked. Finn pushed off the wall just as Matty backed out, that stupid, dreamy smile plastered on his face.

The boy turned and walked right into him.

Watching the smile die on Matty’s face was a small, savage victory. The kid puffed up, trying to look solid. Look at him. Playing at being a man.

Finn pushed off the wall, becoming a barrier in the dim light. “Comfy in there, Langley?”

"She was cold. I’m getting her a sweater.”

“A sweater.” Finn let the word hang, ugly and small in the metal-scented air. A sweater. While I’d give her my own hide if she needed the warmth. “How fucking precious. Playin' house while the world’s full of Brutes.”

“It’s called being decent,” Matty shot back, moving to sidestep him. Finn shifted, blocking him effortlessly. The kid was all heart, no instinct.

“Decent. Right. Let me tell you what’s decent. She’s a Stray. A miracle on two legs. And you’re in there with your puppy-dog eyes, treatin’ her like some... some porcelain doll you found in a ruin. It’s pathetic.”

He saw the flush, the anger. Good. Get angry.

“Better than what you want to do. Leering, grabbing. She’s not... she’s not meat.”

Meat. The word was a hot brand on Finn’s brain. It conjured the scav band, the desperate, silent transactions in the dark. That wasn’t this. This was different. She was different. But he lacked the words to carve out the distinction, so he fell back on the only truth he knew. “I know what she is. I know what we are. Men. In a world with almost no women. You think your tender feelings matter out there? You think holdin’ her hand is gonna keep her alive? She needs someone who knows how the world works. Someone who’ll claim her, keep her safe because she’s his, not because he’s got some boyhood fantasy.”

He watched the words land, watched them try to extinguish that fragile light in Matty’s eyes. That’s it. See it. See the real world.

“You don’t touch her,” Matty growled, and there was a new edge there, one Finn hadn’t heard before. “You keep your hands and your... your ideas to yourself.”

Finn barked a laugh, sharp and derisive. “Or what, kid? You’ll give me a stern talkin’-to? You’ll write a poem about it? I’ve seen you hesitate on a kill. You’re soft. She needs hard. She needs a real man.”

The kid’s face changed then. The hurt solidified into something harder. “I am a real man,” Matty stated, and he sounded like he believed it. “And I’m telling you to back off.”

The challenge hung in the air, unspoken. Finn leaned in, crowding his space, letting him smell the wilds on him, the sweat, the truth of survival. "Make me."

The fist came faster than he expected.

Crack.

Pain blossomed along his jaw, bright and shocking. His head rocked to the side, teeth clacking together. The metallic taste of blood flooded his mouth. And instead of rage, a feral, approving grin split his lips. “There it is.”

Then the world dissolved into beautiful, honest violence.

Matty was strong, fueled by a righteous fury, but Finn was a creature of close-quarters chaos. He didn’t fight fair. A knee aimed for the thigh, a fist for the soft spot under the ribs. He took a hit on the shoulder, grunting, and used the momentum to drive them both into the wall. Plaster dust rained down.

He’s cryin’. The idiot’s actually cryin’. He could see the tears cutting tracks through the dust on Matty’s face, hear the ragged sobs mingling with grunts of effort. It should have made him weak, but it only confused Finn.

They were a tangled knot of limbs, sweat, and blood. Finn snarled, trying to articulate the primal logic driving him. “You don’t get it... claimin’ rights... first dibs...” The words came out ugly, reducing her, and he hated it even as he said it, but it was the only currency he knew in this brutal economy.

Then Matty’s forehead came forward.

Thud.

White light. A galaxy of pain erupting behind his eyes. His grip faltered, the world swimming for a crucial second. It was all the opening he needed to tap into the last reserve, the feral survival switch that had kept him alive in the wilderness for years alone.

With a guttural sound, he surged back. He hooked a foot behind Matty’s ankle and twisted, using his wiry strength and lower center of gravity. They went down hard, Finn on top, the impact driving the air from Matty’s lungs in a pained whoosh. Finn scrambled, pinning Matty’s wrists to the gritty floor with his knees, his own hands finding Matty’s throat.

He didn’t squeeze. Just held them there, a lethal promise. His breath came in ragged, hot gusts, blood from his split lip dripping onto Matty’s shirt. Matty stared up, glasses askew, tears and defiance mingling in his gaze.

Finn leaned down, his voice a raw, breathless scrape in the sudden quiet.

“See? This is what I am. This is the hard. You wanna protect her? You gotta be this. You gotta be willin’ to be this for her, against anyone. Even me.” He swallowed, the taste of copper and truth thick on his tongue. “Your pretty words and clean sweaters... They’re a dream, Matty. I’m the wake-up call. I want her. I want her warmth, her smell, I want... I want to build something with her. Walls. A fire. A...” A kid. He couldn’t say it. It was too big, too soft a dream to voice in this moment of hardness. “I can give her that. ‘Cause I know what it takes to hold onto it in this world. You’re still dreamin’ of the world that was. I’m the one who lives in the world that is.”