The world had been loud for too long. Explosions, gunfire, the shuffle of the dead, orders barked through comms—it all melted away tonight, traded for the soft hum of a record player in the corner and the quiet crunch of chips between sips of wine.

The apartment wasn’t fancy. A little too many throw blankets, candles flickering unevenly on a coffee table covered in half-empty glasses and mismatched bowls—but it was safe. And more than that, it felt normal.

Claire was curled up in a corner of the couch pit, her legs tucked under her, laughing softly at something Ashley said. Ashley, cheeks flushed with red wine and joy, was mid-rant about how zombie apocalypse or not, low-rise jeans were still a crime. Jill sat nearby, quiet as always, a glass in hand, eyes lidded in that calm, unreadable way—but her lip curled at the edges every time Sheva teased her.

Rebecca had taken over the aux cord, playing something nostalgic, probably from a 90s playlist she swore wasn’t hers. Helena leaned back on a pillow, her head tilted against the wall, watching the group with a small, tired smile—the kind you only give when you haven’t let yourself breathe in too long.

And Ada?

No one saw when she slipped in. But there she was, perched on the armrest beside Claire, long legs crossed, fingers idly tracing the rim of her glass. Her eyes softened in the candlelight, the edges of her mask lowered just enough.