Goodbye to a World | shane walsh

03 | solace

A fever dream couldn't begin to describe what was unfolding before her.

Shane was tearing through the shack like a man possessed, his movements frantic and driven by some dark urgency. He ripped through her bags, tossed her few belongings aside, and even overturned the small cot she'd been using as a bed. Nola stood by the door, which had been slammed shut by Shane the moment he entered. She didn't dare move, didn't dare speak, only watched him with a growing sense of unease. He was getting on her nerves, but there was something else beneath that—a prickling awareness of just how volatile he had become.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Shane's voice was a low, dangerous growl as he continued ransacking her things. He didn't even glance in her direction.

Nola blinked, almost confused by the question. "What do you mean? I'm... surviving here, I—"

"Are you alone?" he snapped, still not looking at her. His voice was sharp, cutting through her response like a knife.

She barely suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. "Yes, I'm alone. I have been since I last saw you." Her voice was steady, but her gaze sharpened as she watched him start rifling through her personal bags.

"What are you doing?" She asked, her tone edged with incredulity as she stepped closer. That's when she noticed the knife in his hand, gripped so tightly his knuckles were white. He spun around to face her, his expression twisted with cold suspicion.

"How did you find me? Who are you with?" He barked the questions at her, stepping closer, his presence looming.

Nola's breath caught in her throat as she realized just how unstable he was. His whole body was coiled, ready to strike, and his eyes bore into hers with a look of raw, paranoid fury. One wrong move, one wrong word, and this could end in blood. She knew she had to tread carefully.

Slowly, she raised her hands, palms open, a gesture meant to calm the seething tension. "Shane, I've been surviving on my own, okay? Just like you." Her voice was soft but firm, her eyes steady as she tried to meet his gaze without showing fear.

But Shane shook his head, disbelief tightening his features. In a flash, he stepped closer, the knife now at her throat. The cold metal pressed against her skin, and her pulse thundered in her ears. His eyes, wild and desperate, held her in place as if daring her to make a move. "You're tryin' to trick me, aren't ya? You and your people are gonna ambush me," he snarled, the knife digging in just enough to make her wince.

Nola fought to keep her voice steady, to keep her body from trembling. "You've seen my stuff," She said quietly, her words deliberate and measured. "It's barely enough for me, let alone a whole group. There's only my clothes, my shoes... there's no one else here." She let the truth hang in the air between them, hoping it would reach through the fog of his paranoia.

For a long, agonizing moment, Shane's eyes flickered with doubt, his mind working over her words. She could see the conflict in him, the war between the man he used to be and the one the world had turned him into.

"Trust me," She added, her voice gaining a touch of desperation. "You're the last person I expected to see. Hell, I thought you were a damn rotter out there before I let you in." She needed him to believe her, to see that she had no intent to harm him, that this was just a pure, sickening coincidence.

Shane's gaze bore into hers for what felt like an eternity, searching for any sign of deceit, any reason to strike. Then, slowly, the knife wavered, and he finally lowered it. His shoulders sagged as if the weight of his own mistrust had finally broken him. He stumbled back, collapsing onto the rickety sofa, the floor groaning beneath him. He dropped the knife, his hands going to his head as he let out a shuddering breath, his composure unraveling.