Maybe he does, maybe it’s the quiet sort of bluster that idiots offer out when they start believing their own hype. What’s Gabe know about this man, really? What’s he care? If he were smart, Gabe knows he’d be turtling up and hoarding supplies, finding himself a defensible position for when shit inevitably goes sideways again. But the other side of that coin is that no one survives alone without a whole lot of luck or gear, and right now he’s got neither.

The strength of the one is the strength of the pack, the Wolves liked to say. You need allies on the ground. Worst part is they’re right.

Gabe hums, holding the mug in his hands and idly tracing the lines of the fox tattoo. Wondering what he makes of this man beyond the newness, and that quieter sort of bluster. “You know what,” Gabe says after a moment, “indulge me, stranger, I’m in that kinda mood: how’re you gonna get out of this one?”