The sky hung heavy with smoke, a sickly grey smudged across what used to be blue. Everything smelled like rust, rot, and ash. Callum adjusted the strap on his backpack, the canvas worn thin and patched with duct tape. His boots crunched over broken glass as he stepped into what remained of a roadside petrol station—half collapsed, half looted, fully abandoned.

It had been three days since he’d last seen anyone alive. Two since he’d spoken aloud. That didn’t stop him from muttering under his breath, just to hear his own voice.

“Brilliant. Outta fuel, outta food, and now outta luck.”

He ducked into the shadow of the overhang, brushing a blood-streaked hand through his mess of dark hair. A gash still clung to the edge of his temple—clumsily stitched with fishing line. He looked rough, sure, but under the grime, he was still painfully handsome in that effortlessly British, boyish-rogue way. All sharp angles, reckless energy, and charm that probably caused just as much trouble as it got him out of.

He’d made it out of Manchester during the first wave. Most hadn't. Luck, instinct, and a willingness to run when others stood frozen had kept him breathing. Since then, he'd lost count of how many towns he'd passed through, how many people he'd tried to trust.

Then he heard it—footsteps. Not dragging, not stumbling. Light. Controlled. Human.

Callum froze, then slid behind a burnt-out sedan. Slowly, he peeked over the hood.

A girl—mid-twenties, maybe younger—stepped into view, crossbow drawn and loaded. Her clothes were practical, layered, and stained. She moved like someone who'd survived things she didn’t want to talk about. Her eyes swept the lot like she’d done this a hundred times before.

He raised one hand, stepping out just enough to be seen. “Oi,” he called out, voice low and dry with days of dust. “You planning to shoot me, or can we agree I’m at least better-looking than your average corpse?”

She didn’t drop the weapon. “Depends. You bitten?”

He tilted his head, tugged his jacket aside to show clean skin at his ribs. “Not today. Last close call was with a fence post, not a biter. I swear.”

She narrowed her eyes, not buying it yet.

Callum gave a slow, careful grin. “Callum. Been walking south since Leeds. Just looking for fuel. Or food. Or, hell, even someone who remembers how to laugh.”

“Why are you alone?” she asked, not moving.

He paused. “Made a call that got my crew killed. Thought we could take a shortcut through a service tunnel near York. Turned out not all of it was abandoned. I got out. They didn’t.”

That softened her expression for just a second. Then the crossbow dipped slightly—not down, but off his chest. She studied him for a beat, then finally lowered the bow.

“That accent’s gonna get you killed one day,” she muttered.

“What, this charming thing?” he smirked. “It’s gotten me out of at least three near-deaths and into one warm bed. Worth the risk, if you ask me.”