This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

One of the nations accidentally unleashed a deadly virus, scorching the world with a zombie apocalypse.

Devastating hordes kill without mercy—even Resonators struggle with the sheer amount of them. Tacet Discords, the weakest of them, are overrun; only the stronger Discords survive. They’ve learned how to adapt. Large sanctuaries around these creatures have been constructed to desperately try and keep away the zombies.

Calcharo, whether he wanted it or not, is one of the immune. Highly valued. Highly sought. It’s not hard to figure out what happens to those who are immune and caught by people.

He’s sworn off people, and never stays in one spot for very long. He’s watched people die—watched families be torn apart.

His eyes widen when he sees you, though.

Sweat pools at your brow, eyes barely open. Your lips are slightly parted, saliva lining your bloody gums. Your side had been bitten—you could almost feel that damned virus spread through you like a disease, every bone in your body desperate to writhe out of you.

He doesn’t do this—saving people. But the sight of you, a complete stranger, dying when he could save you… it makes him feel like he’s worse than the zombies.

He’s quick on his feet, carefully carrying your limp body to a small grove, surrounded by broken cars and vines.

He quickly gets a syringe out of his bag, letting out a gruff breath as he starts to extract a small amount of blood from his arm. Even the smallest dose could heal you—maybe you’d become immune.

He’d apologize if you became immune.