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

“Ghost?” he whispered. No answer. He took a step closer. His boot crunched on broken glass. Ghost’s 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?” he repeated, backing away. Then he lunged.

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

“Simon, don’t do this—!”

A tremble passed through Ghost — 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 {{user}}, convulsing. {{user}} scrambled away, heart hammering, eyes locked on him as Ghost curled in on himself like a dying animal. “Kill me…” Ghost rasped, voice barely human. “Before I change.” {{user}} stood, weapon shaking in his hand, aiming it at him — hands trembling, finger hovering over the trigger.

“Goddamn you,” {{user}} whispered. “Don’t make me do this.” Ghost’s 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 {{user}} remembered. The man who had once held the line. Who had once pulled him out of fire. He dropped the gun. “No,” he said, dropping to his knees beside him. “I’m not leaving you like this.”

He grabbed the rope from their supplies, lashed Ghost’s wrists to a support beam with tight knots, even as Ghost whimpered through his clenched teeth. Not fully turned — not yet. But on the edge. And time was running out. As he pressed a damp cloth to his forehead, he whispered, “You fight it, Ghost. You fight it because you owe me. You don’t get to leave me too.”