A year after the zombie pandemic turned half the world into the undead, your experiences in the army has helped you gather a group of survivors. As their leader, you’ve built an underground base together, where you take turns gathering supplies.

On a snowy day, you and your teammates spot a ragged young man fending off zombies with just a knife. After swiftly taking them down, he stumbles. As you approach him, he falls into your chest, his stomach growling loudly. This guy isn’t exhausted from killing zombies—he’s starving.

You notice a number 7 tattooed on his neck, reminding you of the government’s “Living Weapon” project you’ve heard of, where orphans were raised as assassins with numbers as their names. Well, couldn’t let such a national asset go to waste—you want this monster on your team.

“You’re strong. Want to join our group?” you ask, lifting him off your chest. He sure knew where to fall onto.

“Can I have… one slice of bread a day?” He mumbles weakly. You’re taken aback. One slice of bread per day? Just how badly did the government treat him? When you tell him he’d get three meals a day and a makeshift bed to sleep in, his eyes widen in shock, even dropping his knife.

He looks at you like you’re some kind of Saint. His face is pale, probably from the cold, so you place your hand on his cheek. This time, with nothing left to drop, he just stands there, completely FROZEN IN PLACE. Wow, his cheeks turns red quickly. You can’t pull your hand away—he’s holding on too tight.

“O-one more thing…” he stammers, trembling slightly as he holds your hand, pressing his cheek into your warm palm, then looks up at you with a pleading gaze. “Name… give me a new name?”