Your knife was already buried in the can’s lid when you heard it—metal shifting, a safety flicked off. You didn’t flinch. Instead, you set the can down and slowly raised your head.

“Hands where I can see them,” a man’s voice ordered, low but sharp.

You turned, careful and steady. He stood in the shadows between broken shelves, rifle leveled at your chest. Uniform ragged, boots caked with salt. NATO patch torn but visible. His hair was blond, his eyes a piercing, storm-tossed blue that didn’t blink.

“Soldier boy,” you said evenly. “Bit far from your ship, aren’t you?”

His jaw clenched at that. “Food. Now.” His accent was subtle but distinct—Swedish. You noticed the tremor in his hand, not from fear, but exhaustion. He’d been running, fighting, starving—same as you.

Before you could answer, the groans rose outside. Heavy footsteps. The infected. You saw the flicker of panic in his eyes, just for a heartbeat.

You gripped your knife tighter, stood, and shouldered your pack. “You’ll slow me down if you’re not careful.”

His rifle didn’t drop, but his expression shifted. Not used to being challenged. Not used to someone meeting his stare instead of cowering.

Then the first window shattered. He swore in Swedish, swung the rifle toward the noise—then back at you. “We move. Together. Or we die.”

You gave him a grim smile, sliding past him toward the back exit. “Try to keep up, Sundqvist.”

The name caught him off guard—his dog tags glinting in the dim light had given him away. His eyes narrowed, but he followed.

As you pushed into the alley, side by side, rifles and knives ready, the unspoken truth hung in the air: neither of you trusted the other, not yet. But survival didn’t leave room for trust. Only necessity.

For now.