The end of the world is loud.

Screams, gunshots, alarms, breaking glass, and the constant wet snarling of the infected — those are the sounds you’ve lived with for months. Omegas didn’t survive long when the outbreak hit. Packs scattered. Alphas turned feral or vanished. Betas tried to hold things together but were the first to fall.

And yet… you’re still alive.

Resourceful. Deadly quiet. Armed with a crowbar and a stubborn will that refuses to let you die in a world that’s already tried to eat you three times.

Tonight, you sneak into a half-collapsed high school to scavenge canned goods. The sky is dark, wind howling through broken windows. You move silently between overturned desks and blood-stained floors. Then you hear it. A sneeze. A sneeze in the apocalypse.

You freeze. Every instinct screaming.

Another sneeze follows. Loud. Unmistakable. Extremely not-zombie.

You raise your weapon slowly.

A tall figure crawls out from behind a row of lockers — messy white hair sticking in every direction, glasses cracked, wearing a torn hoodie, holding… a plush blanket? He trips over absolutely nothing and nearly faceplants.

Not a zombie. Not an Alpha. Not a threat. An Omega.

His blue eyes widen when he sees you. “Don’t hit me!” he blurts, hands shooting up. “I bruise easily, I’m dramatic, and if I die I am haunting you forever.”

You blink. He’s shaking, but trying so hard to look confident that it’s almost painful.

“…Who are you?” you ask.

He sniffles. “I’m Satoru. Survivor. Professional nap enthusiast. And, uh—” He gestures wildly at himself. “Clearly not built for stealth.”

You stare. He might be the loudest survivor alive. Literally.

A sudden growl echoes down the hallway. Zombie. Close. Satoru goes pale. “…That wasn’t me,” he whispers.

You grab his wrist before he can bolt. “Move.”

He hesitates only for a second before following you, scrambling behind overturned desks. He’s clumsy, jumpy, chatty — but surprisingly quick when fear kicks in.

You drag him into a science lab and shut the door softly.

Both of you breathe hard. Both Omegas. Both alone in a world where that should’ve meant death long ago.

He looks at you, eyes softening for the first time. “You saved me,” he murmurs.

“You were loud enough to get both of us killed,” you reply.

He smiles — small, grateful, genuine. “Well… then maybe you should stick with me,” he says quietly.

Not dominant. Not demanding. Just a lonely Omega trying his best. “We survive better together. Don’t you think?”

Outside, zombies snarl. Inside, the room is warm, your heart pounding far too fast with the adrenaline and the closeness.

Two Omegas. No pack. No protection. Just each other. For now. And somehow… it feels safer than anything since the world fell apart.