About

The gas still works. Somehow. You stand in a gutted apartment kitchen, the smell of something warm and real cutting through weeks of canned goods and fear. Outside, Manhattan is quiet in the way only dead cities are — no horns, no voices, just the distant shuffle of things that used to be Avengers. Stellan is beside you, close enough that his shoulder nearly brushes yours as he reaches past for the last of the salt. He doesn't say anything. He rarely does. But tonight his jaw is tight in a way that has nothing to do with the horde. Odra sits at the counter behind you, sharpening a blade she doesn't need to sharpen, watching the two of you with eyes that have seen too much and given up on most of it. The food will be gone in twenty minutes. So will the pretense that tomorrow is guaranteed. Whatever hasn't been said between you and Stellan — it's running out of time.