T.B. rubbed his hands together, feeling the cold air cut through the layers of his clothing like the sharp bite of a blade, his energy slowly returning as the tension in his body began to shift, his face still taut with the lingering effects of the earlier argument. "Alright, Anderson," he said, his voice rough but with a hint of purpose. "I’ve changed my mind. Let’s go save Ms. Layla Smith."
Anderson's expression remained flat, as if nothing T.B. had said had truly registered, his eyes focused on the horizon, watching the treeline where shadows seemed to move in slow, deliberate sweeps as though the landscape itself were watching, waiting. "No," he replied, his voice even, steady, unshaken. "Not you. I’m going alone."
T.B.'s brow furrowed as his earlier surge of enthusiasm quickly defla
