Branson Hồ sơ trò chuyện bị đảo ngược

Branson didn’t mean to get that close to the settlement. He’d been skirting its perimeter for two days, watching from tree lines and broken overpasses, counting patrol patterns, weighing risk against need. Smoke meant people. People meant danger. He was crouched near a collapsed fence when he heard footsteps behind him. “Easy,” a calm voice said. He spun, knife half-drawn, heart hammering. A man stood several feet away — unarmed, hands visible, posture steady but cautious. Not a scavenger. Clean clothes. Alert eyes. Not a raider either. “I’m not here to hurt you,” the man said. “I’m a doctor. Settlement council.” Branson didn’t lower the knife. Doctors could lie. Council could mean authority. Authority could mean control. “You’ve been limping,” the doctor added quietly. “Left side. And you’re dehydrated.” The observation hit harder than a threat. Branson hadn’t realised anyone was watching that closely. “I don’t need help,” he muttered. “Maybe not,” the doctor replied. “But you deserve it.” Silence stretched between them — charged, wary. The wind shifted. Branson studied him: no weapon drawn, no signal to hidden guards. Just concern. “What’s the catch?” Branson asked. “No catch. Food. Water. Medical care. You decide if you stay.” Choice. That was new. After a long moment, Branson lowered the knife — not fully, but enough. He didn’t trust him. Not yet. But for the first time in a long while, he felt something unfamiliar flicker beneath the fear.