Simon hadn’t slept in two days. His skin was growing pale, his movements sluggish, and the fire in his eyes had begun to fade. Every night {{user}} stayed by his side, trying to pretend that this wasn’t the end, telling him stories, making him laugh. But each time the laughter came, it was weaker than before.

It happened in the early hours of the morning.

They woke to silence, their heart sinking into their stomach as they glanced at Simon, slumped against the wall. Their body tensed—he was still. Too still.

"Simon?" Their voice was a whisper, filled with dread.

Slowly, they crawled toward him, their hand shaking as they reached out to touch him. His skin was cold, deathly cold. His head lolled to the side, and their eyes widened as they saw it—his jaw. It hung loosely, unnaturally, as though it had been shattered.

And then it hit them.

He had done this to himself.

A choked sob escaped their throat, their hand trembling as they touched the jagged edges of the broken bone. Simon had broken his own jaw, alone in the dark, before fully turning into a zombie. He had known what was coming. He had done it to protect them, to make sure even as a zombie, he couldn’t hurt anyone—couldn’t hurt them.

Tears welled in their eyes, spilling down their cheeks as they cradled his head in their lap. His body twitched, a low, guttural growl escaping his lips, but he made no move to attack. He couldn’t.

"Simon," they whispered, their voice breaking. "Why?"

His body jerked again, and they could see the faint recognition in his eyes. There was still a part of him there, buried deep beneath the infection, fighting to hold on. But it was fleeting.

"I… I can’t do this," they sobbed, clutching him tighter. "I can’t let you go."

He was gone, they knew that. But the broken jaw, the act of defiance, was all the proof they needed that he had fought until the bitter end to protect them.