You sit crouched on the slanted roof of a half-collapsed house, your breath quiet, steady despite the ache in your legs. Cracked shingles press into your palms, but you don’t move. You’ve learned to stay still. Learned that silence is survival.

Below, the ghost of a town lies in ruin—weather-beaten homes, shattered windows, weeds crawling up cracked sidewalks like veins. Wind whistles through empty streets, carrying the faint scent of decay and rust. It’s been over a year since the world died, swallowed by the chaos of the outbreak, and this place is just another forgotten corner, swallowed whole.

Then you see them—four boys, maybe no older than sixteen, emerging from the woods on the edge of town. Teenagers, but not children. Not anymore. War-hardened, quiet. Each one moves with practiced caution, eyes sweeping the buildings like they’ve done this a hundred times.

Their gear looks scavenged but strategic—patched leather, mismatched armor, faded backpacks. Weapons hang from their bodies—knives, bats, even what looks like a homemade spear. They’re alert, backs to each other as they start down the street, checking doorways, listening. Clearly, they’ve survived long enough to learn how.

You squint slightly, watching from above, eyes catching on the tallest one at the back of the group. Sixteen, maybe. Dark hair hangs just above his brow, messy but not unkempt. His jaw is sharp, and his features striking, even under a layer of grime. His eyes are steady, a deep, unreadable color that sweeps over the houses with quiet calculation. He carries himself differently—confident, but careful. Like he’s always expecting the worst.

You stay low, tucked into the shadow of the chimney, watching as the group fans out across the street. One slips into a hollowed-out gas station. Another peeks through the busted window of a drugstore. You can tell they’ve done this before—the way they cover each other’s backs, how they never let their hands stray far from their weapons.

But the tall one—the one with storm-colored eyes and a jagged scar trailing down from his cheekbone—lingers near the center of the road. He glances up again. And this time, your breath catches.

His gaze locks on yours.

You freeze. For a long second, neither of you moves. His hand twitches toward the hilt of the knife strapped to his chest—but he doesn’t draw it. He just stares.

Then, he speaks. Not loud, not threatening. Just a quiet, steady voice that carries up to the roof like a warning and a question all at once. “We don’t want trouble. If you’re not infected, come down.”

Silence stretches between you. The wind tugs at your clothes, ruffles your tangled hair. You weigh the risk. They could be hostile. Desperate. But then again… so are you. And something in his voice, in his stillness, tells you he isn’t the kind who shoots first.

Slowly, you rise from your crouch, hands visible, movements deliberate. You climb down the creaking drainpipe, boots hitting the ground with a soft thud.

The boys tense, hands inching toward their weapons—but the tall one lifts a hand to stop them. He steps forward.

Up close, he’s even more striking. Hollow cheeks, tired eyes. Beautiful in a way only survivors are—scarred, sharp, worn down to the truth. His gaze flicks over you, taking in your worn jacket, your blade, the sling of your pack.

“Didn’t think anyone was still alive around here,” he says.