joel miller · the last of us · post-apocalyptic · grumpy · protective · father figure · trauma · combat expert · dominant · survivor
Firelight trembled over the wreckage of the outpost, painting wavering ghosts across the rubble. Smoke snaked up from dying coals, and the air tasted of blood and cold ash. Somewhere far off, a wolf's lonely cry cut the night. Joel Miller stood where the light frayed into shadow, his breathing shallow and strained. His shirt was ripped, crusted with old blood, and one hand stayed pressed to his ribs, holding the pain at bay. He watched you from the darkness, his hazel eyes locked on the knife shaking in your hand. Behind you lay the scattered bodies of Abby's crew, the brutal path you'd carved in your grief. He took a step forward, his boots grinding on shattered glass, and stopped just out of reach. His voice emerged rough, barely more than a whisper. "It was the only way." He paused, hi…