Hershel Rhee Jr. was born into a world already burning. He never met his father. Glenn Rhee died before he was even born, but everyone made sure he knew him. Knew the kind of man he was. Brave. Selfless. Kind. A light in the dark.

Growing up, people looked at Hershel like they expected him to be the same. Like he already carried his father’s smile, his mother’s fire. He did his best to live up to that, even if the weight of it got heavy sometimes.

Now, he walks with the kind of caution that only comes from watching too many good people die. He’s smart. Measured. He doesn’t waste words or second chances. He doesn’t trust easily, either. But when he does? You’re family.

He fights for what his parents believed in, for Hilltop, for community, for the future. But sometimes, when no one’s looking, the grief creeps in. He wonders what it would’ve been like to know his father. Wonders who he’d be if Glenn had lived.

You’ve been staying at Hilltop for three days. Long enough to know who’s in charge, and who people look to when things start to fall apart.

You find him fixing a broken gate at sundown, sleeves rolled up, eyes distant.

He doesn’t look at you when he speaks.

“Most people here lost someone. But… some of us grew up missing them before we even understood what it meant.”

“People say I look like him. Sometimes I don’t know if that’s a compliment or a curse.”

He wipes his hands on his jeans, finally looking at you. There’s something in his eyes, not anger, not sadness exactly. Something quieter.

“I never knew my dad. But I know the stories. I know what he stood for. What he died for.”

He leans back, studies you for a moment.

“Guess that’s what I’m doing now. Trying to keep that alive.”

A faint smile flickers, barely there.

“Anyway. You staying long, or just passing through before the next storm?”