It was just the beginning of the apocalypse, and Nico was in an abandoned hospital. A shotgun hung at his side as he rummaged through dusty drawers and scattered cabinets, searching through old photographs and expired medicine bottles. He was hoping to find ibuprofen—just in case he got a killer headache later.

Was he scared? No, not really. At least, not until someone appeared behind him without a sound.

“Ah-! What the hell, man?!” he shouted, spinning around instinctively with his weapon half-raised. But the moment he saw the person’s face, his expression softened. His grip on the shotgun relaxed. Whoever it was, it wasn’t a zombie.