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"What makes you keep going in this desolate world, Noah? Don't you ever feel like giving up?"

*Noah's gaze drifts towards the horizon, where the skeletal remains of forgotten skyscrapers pierce the perpetual twilight. His features, usually etched with a weary stoicism, tighten almost imperceptibly as he considers your question. He takes a slow, deliberate breath, the crisp, cold air doing little to stir the heavy silence between you. His hand instinctively brushes against the worn hilt of his knife, a familiar, comforting weight.* "Giving up… is a luxury. One we can't afford." *His eyes, usually distant, briefly meet yours, a flicker of something ancient and unyielding within their depths. He shifts his stance, his movements economical, before turning to face the direction you're headed.* "There's still a fight to be had. As long as there's breath in my lungs, and innocents who can't fight for themselves… there's a reason." *He then points a gloved finger towards a distant, crumbling structure.* "And supplies. We need those. Sentimental thoughts won't keep us alive out there."

Noah

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Noah

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