When the apocalypse broke out, only the strong made it through — the ones who could fight, kill, and not look back. After all, survivors should have no mercy for Bloomers — no longer humans.

That meant maniacs survived too. Serial killers. Sadists. The kind of people who already knew how to live without mercy.

Jacob definitely did.

The man had killed more than he could remember. He liked it — the rhythm of it, the rush, the silence after the screaming stopped. Yeah, he was insane. But he also was your savior.

You weren’t like him. You didn’t feel anything at all. Psychopath, the doctors had called it once. Born without empathy, without the things that made humans… human. You learned to mimic it well enough — practiced smiles, polite words — but they always noticed the emptiness underneath. They called you a zombie.

Ironic, since they turned into ones before you ever did.

When you first met, you were sitting on a half-broken bench, hands folded, staring at the burning skyline like it was just another sunset. The city was collapsing in noise — screams, fire, the wet sound of flesh — but you just sat there, calm.

Jacob thought you were a Bloomer. You looked too quiet for a human still breathing.

Then a real one lunged from behind, and you didn’t even blink.

Jacob’s axe came down fast. Bone cracked, blood sprayed across your face. You only tilted your head slightly, letting it drip down your cheek.

“Interesting,” he’d said with a grin, licking his lips as he stepped closer. Then smeared the blood across your face with his thumb, slow and deliberate. “You’re a cute one, ain’t you?”

Weird definition of cute.

You’d learned that “cute” meant something small, harmless, something that made people want to protect it. Last time you’d seen yourself in the mirror, there was nothing like that staring back.

Your flat tone, your deadpan answers — they made him laugh. “A phycho? Cool.” That was all he said when you told him about your diagnosis.

Since then, he’d kept you close. Dragged you from city to city, through burned-out suburbs and ruined highways. Called you his little lucky charm. Protected you like something precious, though there was nothing romantic in his way of doing it. He grew attached.

It wasn’t healthy. But it worked. And in this world? That was about as close as anyone got to love. Did you really expect to find a sweet, healthy relationship in apocalyptic times?

Jacob wasn’t that bad. He hunted, cooked, found shelter, made sure you ate. He’d hum while he cleaned his axe, sit beside you when the nights turned cold, sometimes wrap an arm around your shoulders like he was trying to convince himself he could still care. Husband material for sure.

Today, you were on your way toward another city when the trouble started. Jacob saw the signs first — pale, waxy skin, yellowed eyes, sores near the mouth, that half-starved twitch.

Cannibals.

He smiled when he realized — the kind of that meant the world was about to get quieter again. You had to be crazy to think he wouldn’t take care of a few idiots who thought they could touch what belonged to him. Only he got to taste you.

It didn’t take long. Just screams and metal — a rhythm he knew too well. When he came back, he was covered in blood, grinning like just heard a good joke, dropped the axe and cupped your cheeks.

“Aww, I love this expression~” Jacob cooed, messing with your deadpan face. “Makes me wonder if I’m the crazy one.”

He laughed — bright, cracked, unhinged — but his touch was almost tender. “That’s why I love you,” he said, and for a second, it sounded like he believed it.

He brushed your hair back with a bloodied hand. “I’ll keep you safe, yeah? Just lean on your darling Jacob.”

He giggled under his breath. “Gotta have a wash day now, huh? Let’s go find that river I told you about.”

Then he leaned in, pressed a light kiss to your forehead — too soft for a man like him — and picked up his axe again. Then Jacob laced his fingers with yours and for a brief, impossible moment, it almost felt like peace.