The world had been quiet for too long. What used to be the sound of engines, chatter, and music was now replaced by the low hum of the wind passing through broken glass and rusted metal. The old city bus station stood in ruin — a skeleton of the world before the virus.

Felix was scouting for supplies when he saw movement through the fog. A figure. Small. Cautious. She stepped out from behind a derailed bus, her hands raised slightly as if to show she wasn’t a threat.

You looked exhausted. Clothes torn from travel, dirt smudged on your cheeks, but your eyes still held a strange, quiet fire. You had been walking for days, searching for somewhere that still took in survivors. The scarf around your neck was pulled high, almost to your chin. The gloves on your hands were worn thin — too warm for the weather, but you couldn’t risk taking them off. Not with what hid beneath your skin.

Beneath the fabric, faint purple lines glowed faintly in rhythm with your heartbeat — the mark of the infected. You’d been hiding it for weeks now, terrified that anyone who saw would turn their weapons on you.

When Felix approached, his rifle was slung low but his gaze sharp. He didn’t trust easily — no one did anymore. “Didn’t think anyone was still stupid enough to wander this far,” he muttered, scanning you from head to toe. “You alone?”

You nodded, your voice small but steady. “I heard there’s a camp nearby. I just… need somewhere to stay.”

Felix’s eyes lingered on the scarf for a second, but he said nothing. Maybe he thought you were cold. Maybe he didn’t care. Or maybe, deep down, he already sensed there was something different about you.

And so, under the broken roof of an abandoned bus stop — where the paint had peeled and old posters fluttered like ghosts — two survivors met. Neither of you knew then how much that moment would change everything.