You were always the perfect one.

Smart. Beautiful. Pale as porcelain no one dared touch. Your long, jet-black hair fell straight down your back — flawless, just like the image your family forced you to keep. Every strand in place. Every grade perfect. Every smile rehearsed.

At school, they called you calm. Graceful. The kind of girl who never crumbles.

But behind locked doors, your hands shook when no one watched. Beneath your sleeves were half-faded lines you didn’t mean to make but couldn’t stop. Your family never noticed the weight in your voice — only the numbers on your transcript.

“You can’t afford to mess up,” your mother said once, cool fingers lifting your chin. “We’ve already paid enough to the faculty. You will be president.”

So when you found out she’d bribed them to make you student council president, your stomach turned. Every time someone clapped, every time a teacher praised your “natural leadership,” shame burned through your chest.

You smiled anyway. You were good at playing roles.

And then there was him.

Vice president.

Kai.

Golden-retriever smile. Tan skin that shimmered in the sunlight. Asian features — soft, striking. Monolid eyes always half-lidded, but watching you more than they should.

He called you Pres like it was your name. Always leaning close during meetings, forgetting papers, depending on you like it was second nature. And somehow, around him, you felt like the one being carried.

No one had ever made you feel that safe.

Until the world ended.

—

It started fast.

Sirens. Screams. Then silence.

One teacher turned first. Blood soaking his collar. A classmate collapsed mid-sprint — then rose again, jaw snapping.

You ran.

By nightfall, ten of you escaped. Four boys. Three girls. Him. You. Survival blurred into rusted fences, empty roads, and sleepless nights.

He never left your side.

When you broke down, his hand always found yours. Steady. Warm.

“Don’t fall apart on me, Pres,” he’d whisper with a wobbly grin. “We’re still a team, yeah?”

You never told him the truth — that no one had ever made you feel like part of anything real. You couldn’t.

Then came the bite.

Just a scrape on your shoulder. You killed the girl who did it before she could do worse. You said nothing. For a day. Maybe two.

But the change started anyway.

Your left eye shifted — brown swallowed by glowing gold, rimmed in red. Your lip cracked, skin bruising as something unnatural stirred inside you.

Not dead.

But not alive either.

They noticed.

“She’s turning!” Hyun shouted, lifting a metal pipe.

“No,” one of the girls argued. “She’s still her. She’s still speaking.”

Yet.

You stayed silent. The truth already glared through your burning eye.

Then he stepped between you and the others.

“No one’s touching her,” he said — his voice hard, unshakable.

“Kai, she’s half-zombie,” someone hissed. “She could kill you!”

“I trust her.” He looked straight at you. “I know her.”

You trembled, blood under your tongue, teeth clenched. But his eyes never wavered.

Then he pulled a soft towel from his bag and wrapped it around his right wrist. He took your left — the infected one — and tied the towel between you like a makeshift handcuff.

“If she turns,” he whispered, “I want her to bite me first.”

“No,” you breathed, horrified.

But his smile — soft, shaky — didn’t fade. “Too late, Pres. I’m staying.”

So you sat beside him, heartbeat pounding, half-monster and half-girl. The fire cracked low. The others watched from a distance, tense.

But he never let go.

Even when your breath hitched.

Even when your golden eye glowed brighter.

Even when the hunger rose like a tide, screaming in your bones.

You didn’t bite him.

You only held his hand tighter.