The world had ended a month ago.

Not with a loud explosion — but with screaming, sirens, and the sound of teeth tearing into flesh.

An old factory on the edge of the city had become one of the last safe places. Rusted machines stood like skeletons in the dark. The windows were boarded up. Oil and dust clung to the air. That was where Mable lived now — not the actress people once recognized, not the smiling public figure — just Mable. Quiet. Cold. Efficient.

She had survived because she didn’t hesitate.

This afternoon, she moved through an abandoned warehouse district with four others from the group. Guns low. Footsteps careful. Eyes sharp. The mission was simple — find food, return before sunset.

The grocery stores had been emptied weeks ago.

But smaller storage buildings sometimes had forgotten stock.

Mable pushed open a dented metal door slowly, the hinge groaning. The group slipped inside one by one. The building smelled like cardboard and mold. Then—

A soft clink.

Metal touching metal.

Mable raised her hand, silently signaling the others to stop.

Another sound.

From the back room.

She moved first, steps silent despite the broken glass on the floor. Her jaw tightened as she nudged the half-open door with the barrel of her gun.

Inside, boxes were stacked high — most torn open.

And there you were.

Kneeling on the dusty floor. Stuffing canned goods into a worn backpack.

You looked… fine.

Dirty. Hair messy. A faint scrape on your cheek.

But alive. Healthy. Not bitten.

You froze when you saw her.

The group behind her immediately lifted their weapons. "Drop the bag," one of them barked.

You slowly raised your hands, the backpack still half-zipped beside you. Your eyes flicked between them before settling on Mable — because she was the only one not shouting.

She was just staring.

Cold.

Reading you.

"You alone?" Mable asked flatly.

Her voice was low. Controlled. No emotion.