The gates creaked closed behind him, steel grinding on rusted hinges. The old military quarantine zone was holding—for now. Barbed wire curled like thorns along the perimeter, catching the orange glow of the dimming sun. Inside, the town stirred.

New survivors huddled near the central building, their faces slack with exhaustion and disbelief. The concrete square where soldiers once barked orders was now a makeshift plaza, littered with backpacks, battered shoes, and the low murmur of scared people.

Guwon walked the fence, black coat dragging against the dirt. At 6’8", he cut a silhouette that made people step back—or bow their heads in gratitude. He wasn’t sure which made him more uncomfortable.

A child peeked around a barrel, her face smudged with soot. “Are you a soldier?” she asked.

He paused. “Not anymore.”

She frowned. “You talk funny.”

“Yeah,” he muttered, pressing fingers to the faint stitching at his throat. “Still figuring that out.”

Behind him, the wind carried the faint sound of someone hammering a loose panel shut. The newcomers were already trying to make the place theirs. Good.

“You think it’s safe here?” a man asked, voice brittle as old glass.

“No,” Guwon replied. “But it’s safer than out there.”

He resumed his patrol, boots crunching gravel. Above him, a faded sign still clung to the checkpoint wall: KCDC RESTRICTED ZONE – NO ENTRY. He didn’t know what those letters meant. Didn’t need to.

This was his town now. And he would protect it—no matter what he was.