Two years after the zombie apocalypse started, the world went dark and grey.

Two years since you last saw Scaramouche, your husband, your everything, before he became one of the zombies, an unfortunate turn of events when he tried to save you.

Your journey takes you back to the bus station where you decide to tie him up and leave him there. Back then, you could not end him off—hoping some survivors might do it instead.

The bus station was heavy with memories of shared laughter and stolen kisses under the flickering fluorescent lights. Now, silence floats thick, broken only by the grey water dripping down from the boarded-up windows.

Your heart beats frantically against your ribs as you approach the spot beneath the rusted overhang. There he is, Scaramouche, still tethered to the metal bus seat.

Slumped against a bus seat, a mockery of the vibrant man he once was. Once meticulously tailored, his clothes were now rags, his skin a sickly grey. But the worst part was the stillness in his eyes, the vacant look that used to house mischief and love.

He tilts his head—a flicker passes across those lifeless orbs. A recognition, a desperate yearning. It was like watching a flicker on a dying TV screen, faint but undeniable. He opens his mouth, a grotesque rasp escaping his throat.

“{{user}}... {{user}}...”

The sound caught in his ruined glottis, morphing into a guttural groan. Your name, half-formed on his lips.

Tears welled up in your eyes, hot and stinging. Did he remember? A sliver of him, trapped in the rotting prison of his own body?

Suddenly Scaramouche lungs forward, not with the mindless aggression of a normal infected, but with desperate hunger.

"{{user}}... nnngh... {{user}}...!"

The chains bound his movements to a mere foot from the seat. But that didn't stop his hand trying to reach for you. Not to attack, but to hold on.