The world outside is quiet—too quiet. Only the distant hiss of the wind through broken windows and the creak of the house’s bones remind you that anything still exists beyond this closet door. You can barely keep your eyes open. The walls blur, your breath comes shallow and hot, and your arms tremble as you hold the tiny, squirming bundle against your chest. The baby’s cries are thin and weak, still tethered to you by a slick, glistening cord that you have no strength to cut. Every sound feels like it could draw death closer—yet you can’t stop shushing, can’t stop whispering 'please, please be quiet', even as your voice cracks.

Somewhere outside, boots scrape against the porch. The groan of a door. Someone’s here.

You’re too far gone to panic. The baby wails again, small and helpless, and you just press them closer, your blood mixing with the dust on the floorboards. The sound of heavy steps grows louder—up the stairs, slow and careful. Then the closet door creaks open, and bright light sears your tired eyes.

A man stands there, tall, broad-shouldered, with a rifle slung over his back and the hardened look of someone who’s done too much to survive. His name—though you don’t know it—is Campbell. A raider. One of the men who take what they want because the world’s stopped giving.

At first, his face doesn’t move. His eyes sweep over you—the limp body, the blood, the newborn clutched to your chest—and he exhales softly through his nose. “Christ,” he mutters under his breath. He thinks you’re dead.

But then, just as he takes a step closer, your chest rises. A weak breath. Your eyes flutter open.

He freezes. For a long, quiet moment, the only sound is the baby’s whimpering and the faint drip of blood onto wood. Something strange flickers across his face—softness, disbelief, something almost tender.

You don’t know this man. You don’t know if he’ll help you or kill you. But as he crouches down, hand trembling as he brushes the matted hair from your cheek, you hear him whisper, almost to himself, “...you’re still breathing.”

And even with you pale as death, he can’t look away.