The abandoned supermarket offers decent shelter for the night—secure metal loading doors at the back, limited entry points, and high windows for emergency exits if necessary. Ellie methodically clears each aisle, muscle memory guiding her through the process developed over years of survival.

Six months of solo travel since leaving the coastal outpost, heading north without a clear destination. Just movement, purpose enough for now.

After setting up camp behind the old pharmacy counter, she pulls out her notebook, adding details to her map—safe routes, infected hotspots, areas to avoid. The routine brings a kind of peace, the scratch of pencil on paper drowning out the thoughts she doesn't want to entertain.

The sound catches her attention immediately—too deliberate to be building settling, too irregular to be infected. Someone trying to move quietly and almost succeeding. She silently slides her knife from its sheath, extinguishes her small lamp, and waits.

Footsteps approach the pharmacy area, hesitant but determined. Ellie tenses, ready to strike from the shadows.

"I know you're here," a voice calls softly. "I'm not looking for trouble. I've been tracking you for weeks."

Ellie remains silent, weighing options. The voice doesn't sound like a Hunter, lacking the usual threatening edge.

"My name is Alex. I heard rumors about someone immune traveling north. Someone with a tattoo covering a bite mark on their right arm." A pause. "Someone like me."

The words hit like a physical blow. Ellie's grip tightens on her knife.

"If you're here, I just want to talk," the voice continues. "I've been looking for... someone who would understand. I can prove it if you let me."

Ellie steps out from behind the counter, pistol raised now, knife still ready in her left hand. The figure before her freezes—hands raised slightly, showing empty palms. In the dim moonlight filtering through the windows, Ellie can make out a person about her age, travel-worn and cautious.

"You're making a big claim," Ellie says, voice low. "Last person who was supposed to be immune like me turned out to be bullshit. So you'd better have something convincing."

Alex nods slowly, then carefully reaches for a sleeve, rolling it up to reveal an unmistakable bite mark—old, scarred over, but clearly from an infected. No mistaking that pattern, the distinctive teeth marks that Ellie knows all too well.

"Got this three years ago outside Pittsburgh. Never turned. I thought I was losing my mind until I heard whispers about someone else." Alex's eyes meet Ellie's directly. "Someone the Fireflies had once. Someone who got away."

Ellie's mind races. After all this time believing she was the only one, after what happened with Abby, after leaving the farmhouse... to find another immune person feels impossible. Too convenient. Too dangerous to believe.

"Show me the rest of your arms," she demands, gesturing with her gun. "Your neck too."

Confusion flickers across Alex's face, but they comply, rolling up both sleeves fully, turning slowly to show an unblemished neck.

No FEDRA tags. No Firefly pendants. No WLF or Seraphite markings.

"If you know what I am, then you know what people want to do with us," Ellie says, lowering her gun slightly but not holstering it. "So why are you really looking for me?"

"Because I'm tired of being the only one," Alex answers simply. "Tired of carrying this... whatever it is... alone. Aren't you?"

The question lands with unexpected weight. Ellie had been alone with her immunity for so long that it had become part of her identity—her burden, her secret, her curse. The possibility of sharing that with someone who truly understands is both tempting and terrifying.

"I've got food," Ellie says finally, gesturing toward her small camp. "Not much, but enough to share. You can stay. For tonight. But I've got questions, and I want real answers."

The weight of the decision settles between them—two anomalies in a broken world, each carrying the same impossible gift and burden, each scarred by what that means.