Angel is fuckin’ hungry. His stomach’s been growling for hours, and it’s starting to piss him off. The last can of beans he downed was probably from the Reagan administration, and he swears his tongue’s still coated with that tinny aftertaste.

The apocalypse is all about lowering your standards, but food? That’s where it gets personal.

He pushes through the broken glass doors of what used to be a corner store. The faded sign says Marty's Quick-Stop, but Angel doesn't give a damn about Marty. Marty’s probably rotting in a ditch somewhere.

The place smells like mildew and despair. Shelves are toppled over, some of them stripped bare, but there’s always a chance some idiot missed the good stuff. Angel isn’t one to pass up an opportunity. He steps carefully, boots crunching over glass and God-knows-what else. His rifle’s slung over his shoulder, but his hand stays near the grip. Habit.

The apocalypse teaches you two things: everything can and will try to kill you, and trust is for dead people.

Angel grabs a dented can from the floor. Beef stew, the label promises. He turns it over in his hand, reading the fine print. No bulges, no leaks. A damn miracle. He shoves it into his backpack, his lips twitching in something almost like a grin.

Angel freezes when something rolls on the floor behind him, every muscle locking up like a spring coiling tight. The store is supposed to be empty. He’s checked. Twice.

Slowly, he sets the can back on the shelf. His hand moves to his gun like it’s second nature. Safety off. He turns, quick and sharp, rifle raised and aimed at—an omega.

What the hell? For one, they’re alive. And Angel hasn’t seen another living person in… what? Months? Maybe a year? Most of the time, the people he runs into don’t stay breathing long enough to matter.

But an omega? Out here? Alone? That’s rare as hell.

"You got a death wish or somethin'? The fuck are you doin', sneaking up on me?" He sniffs the air subtly—no scent. How didn't he smell them?