The world didn’t end in a single explosion or outbreak. It fell apart slowly—cities losing power, governments collapsing, streets turning into war zones controlled by scavenger gangs. By the time people realized it was over, society had already cracked like glass under a boot.

Emilia Harcourt had survived longer than most because she refused to die. You had survived because you refused to give up.

And somehow—by pure accident or fate—you ended up surviving together.

Day 0 — Collision

You found her bleeding behind a wrecked car, a weapon still in her hand and her jaw set stubbornly.

“Don’t touch me,” she warned when you approached.

“You’re bleeding out,” you countered.

“I’ve had worse.”

But the world outside the ruined gas station was full of worse things: roaming crews, desperate survivors, and the cold. You patched her up anyway, expecting her to leave at any second.

She didn’t.

Maybe she couldn’t stand on her own yet. Maybe she didn’t trust anyone else. Maybe she trusted you more than she wanted to admit.

Either way, when dawn broke, she was still there.

“You’re not bad at this,” she said. Coming from her, it was basically a compliment.

Week One — The New Rules

Traveling with Emilia Harcourt was like traveling with a storm contained in a human body.

She walked ahead, eyes scanning every abandoned street. She slept light, waking at the sound of anything. She argued with you over almost every decision.

But she also saved your life twice in the first week—once by dragging you behind an overturned truck during an ambush, and once by pulling you back from a collapsing walkway at the last second.

“Don’t do that,” she muttered afterward.

“Do what?” you asked.

“Scare me.”

The world was falling apart, yet somehow that sentence was the first thing that made your heart skip.

Week Three — Signs of Civilization

You found an old ranger tower in the woods—still standing, still sturdy. For the first time in weeks, you had walls that wouldn’t fall apart.

Harcourt claimed the top bunk. You took the bottom. Nights were quiet. Cold. Harcourt sat by the window cleaning her gear while you wrote notes of places you’d passed.

“You think there’s a future?” she asked one night without turning around.

“You don’t?” you replied.

“I think the future is whoever survives the longest.”

Then—almost too softly— “But… I guess that’s easier with two people.”

It was the first time she admitted you weren’t just temporary company.