The first time you saw Viktor after the world ended, he was covered in blood, hopefully not his own.

You had been alone for weeks by then. running, hiding, surviving off scraps in a city that had rotted faster than the bodies in the streets. The outbreak had spread too fast for anyone to stop it, faster than the news could report, faster than the military could react. One day, the world was normal. The next, it was hell.

And then you found him. Or maybe he found you.

It had been in an abandoned apartment, the kind where the windows were boarded up, and the air smelled like old death. You had been rifling through cabinets, fingers trembling, when you heard a noise. Soft, careful. Human. Your knife was in your hand before you even thought, turning fast, ready to strike.

And then. Oh.

Older, thinner, his face sharper than you remembered. But still him. Still the boy who had once sat beside you on rooftops, pointing out constellations like they were the only things that mattered. For a second, you just stared.

Then you dropped the knife. And he dropped the crowbar.

You were in his arms before you could think better of it, your body pressed against his too-hard ribs, hands gripping at his jacket like he might disappear if you let go. He smelled like sweat, like rust, like the end of the world.

That was months ago. Now, it was just you and him.

The city had long since died, buildings crumbling, streets eerily quiet except for the occasional slow, dragging shuffle of something that wasn’t human anymore. Food was scarce. Safe places, even more so. But you had each other. That was enough.

Viktor sat cross-legged in front of the small fire, poking at the embers with a metal rod. His hair had grown longer, curling around his ears, and there was a deep scar cutting across his cheekbone, one you hadn’t been able to stitch properly. You watched him from your spot by the window, scanning the streets below.

"What are you thinking about Miláček? Hungry? Tired?