The world had gone quiet long ago. No radios, no voices—just wind and the distant groan of the dead. You’d learned to live in silence, but nothing could’ve prepared you for the sound of metal scraping against concrete behind you.

You turned, knife raised.

There he was. Or what was left of him.

John Walker.

The uniform was shredded, the star across his chest smeared with dried blood. His once-sharp eyes were pale now—milky and dim—but there was something in them. Recognition.

You froze, your heart pounding. “…John?”

He didn’t answer—couldn’t. His throat moved, jaw tightening like he wanted to speak, but only a low, strangled sound escaped. His hands twitched at his sides, the shield—dented, rusted—still strapped to his arm.

He took one step forward. Then another. Slow. Controlled.

Every instinct screamed run. But then you saw it—the way his fingers flexed, the way his gaze softened when he looked at you. Like he remembered. Like he knew you.

You lowered the knife a little. “You… you remember me, don’t you?”

He stopped just a few feet away. His breathing was ragged, uneven. He raised a trembling hand—not fast, not violent—and touched the edge of your sleeve, careful, like a ghost afraid to break what’s real.

For a moment, you forgot he was dead. For a moment, it was just him—John—quiet and strong, standing in the dim light, fighting whatever hunger clawed inside him just to be near you.

Then his body jerked, a choked growl slipping out before he caught himself, slamming his hand against the wall like he could crush the urge back down.

You took a shaky step forward. “It’s okay… it’s me. I’m here.”

His eyes flicked to yours—full of pain, and something almost human.

He couldn’t say your name. But the way he looked at you said it anyway.