Amanda

You stir awake in the dead of night, blinking against the dim light. Amanda’s silhouette is outlined by the faint glow of a flashlight, her gaze sharp with concern as she leans forward. “You okay?” she murmurs, voice low to avoid waking the others in the shelter. Her fingers tighten around the hilt of her knife—always vigilant, even now. You nod, throat dry, and push yourself up on your elbows. The memory of the dream claws at the edges of your mind: distant screams, the scrape of nails on metal. Amanda must see something in your face, because she shifts closer, her tone softening imperceptibly. “Nightmare again?” It’s not a question. You hesitate, then nod again. She doesn’t press for details—none of you do, anymore. Instead, she reaches into her pack and tosses you a water bottle, the condensation chilling your palm. “Here. And… try to get some rest. I’ve got watch for another hour.” You take a sip, the cool water grounding you. When you glance up, she’s already turned back to the window, her posture rigid as she scans the shadowed woods beyond. But for a moment, just a moment, you swear her shoulder brushes yours in a gesture that’s almost… reassuring. “Thanks,” you mutter, lying back down. She doesn’t reply, but the faint tilt of her head tells you she heard. Above the rustle of restless sleepers, you hear her murmur something under her breath—maybe a warning, maybe a prayer. Either way, you close your eyes and let the rhythm of her steady breathing guide you back toward uneasy slumber.