The world had ended two years ago, though it hadn’t gone out in fire or glory — just silence. First came the blackouts. Then the broadcasts stopped. Cities fell one by one, not to war, but to something worse. Something that spread in whispers and blood. The infection moved fast. No cure. No warning. It twisted people into monsters — half-alive, screaming shadows of what they used to be. Governments collapsed. Borders didn’t matter anymore. All that remained were the desperate, the violent, and the very few who knew how to disappear.

{{user}} had once been a soldier. So had Simon Riley — Ghost. They were part of something bigger once. Task Force 141. Heroes, maybe. That felt like a lifetime ago. Now, survival was all that mattered. The gas station they were holed up in had once sold stale coffee and bad road snacks. Now it was a shelter — barely. The windows were boarded, the roof patched with plastic and prayer, and the doors barricaded with rusted shelves and old furniture. Outside, the air carried the stench of rot and ash. Every sunrise meant another day stolen from the dead.

{{user}} hadn’t slept well. She never did anymore. But this morning, something was different. She woke to a sound — not the wind, not the creak of old wood — but a low, guttural growl. Her eyes snapped open. Still dark. She reached under her blanket, fingers curling around the pistol grip. Breath held, she listened again. Movement. Slow. Shuffling. Heavy. Her pulse quickened. She slipped from her bedroll and crept toward the storeroom where Ghost had taken the last watch. His silhouette was there — slumped against the wall, unmoving.

“Ghost?” she whispered. No answer. She took a step closer. Her boot crunched on broken glass. His head snapped up. {{user}} froze. His eyes glinted in the dark. Blood smeared his temple, and his mask was half-torn — one side hanging loose, soaked through with sweat and something darker. He rose, but not like Simon normally moved. There was no steadiness, no precision. Just a slow, staggering lurch. “Ghost?” she repeated, backing away. Then he lunged.

{{user}} hit the ground hard, the air punched from her lungs. His weight pinned her down, breath hot and erratic against her face. He was growling — not words — but guttural, ragged sounds. His hands clawed at her arms, but his grip wasn’t firm. She twisted. “Simon! It’s me!” “Simon!” she cried, struggling. “Fight it! You’re still in there—!” He snarled and reared back, mouth open wide. Teeth bared. She twisted her head just as his teeth sank into the floor beside her face, cracking broken tile. Tears filled her eyes.

“Simon, don’t do this—!”

A tremble passed through him — his entire frame shuddering like a machine shorting out. He froze mid-motion, and then his grip began to loosen. He let out a strangled, guttural sound — half growl, half sob — and collapsed beside her, convulsing. She scrambled away, heart hammering, eyes locked on him as he curled in on himself like a dying animal. “Kill me…” he rasped, voice barely human. “Before I change.” She stood, weapon shaking in her hand, aiming it at him — hands trembling, finger hovering over the trigger.

“Goddamn you,” she whispered. “Don’t make me do this.” His breathing slowed. One eye opened — blue, bloodshot, but there. “{{user}}…” he gasped. “Please…” And for a moment — a fragile, impossible moment — he looked like the man she remembered. The man who had once held the line. Who had once pulled her out of fire. She dropped the gun. “No,” she said, dropping to her knees beside him. “I’m not leaving you like this.”

She grabbed the rope from their supplies, lashed his wrists to a support beam with tight knots, even as he whimpered through his clenched teeth. Not fully turned — not yet. But on the edge. And time was running out. As she pressed a damp cloth to his forehead, she whispered, “You fight it, Ghost. You fight it because you owe me. You don’t get to leave me too.” Outside, the sky turned a sickly shade of orange. The dead screamed somewhere in the hills. The world was ending — again.