The air was thick with rot. The kind that clung to your lungs, made your eyes sting, and coated everything with the stench of death. Buildings were bones now—hollow, broken ribs of the world that once was. A corner store stood crooked against the bleeding sky, its windows shattered, its shelves looted years ago. Ghost ducked under the bent metal of the doorway first, his rifle raised, movements automatic. Habit. Training. Even though the chain of command was dust. Even though he wasn’t Lieutenant Riley anymore. That man died the day London fell.

Behind him, {{user}} crept through the doorway, boots soft on debris. The silence between them wasn’t cold—it was all they had. Words didn’t mean much when the world had already said its last. She was the last of them. The only other one who made it out of that hellfire bunker in Moscow. She wasn’t a soldier like he was, not really. But she had blood on her hands, just like him. Enough to matter.

They moved together like clockwork—search, scan, clear. He knelt beside a splintered counter, rifling through broken tins. {{user}} rummaged through rusted shelves, stuffing anything edible into her backpack. She had been a civilian, a nobody really, until she pulled a knife out of her boot and saved Ghost from an infected that had nearly torn his throat out. Since then, they were a team. Or maybe something more. In a world like this, it was hard to tell.

“Canned peaches,” she muttered, lifting a dented tin. “Score.” Ghost allowed a small smile. “That’s dinner, then.” That’s when he heard it. The squelch. A wet, inhuman shuffle. A hiss that didn’t belong to anything living. “{{user}}—!”

Too late.

The thing lunged from the dark like a shadow with teeth. Dead eyes, half of its jaw missing, skin peeling in sheets. Ghost shot once. Twice. The creature collapsed, brain matter spilling out with a dull splat. {{user}} was on the floor. He rushed to her, kicked the corpse aside with a savage snarl. Her hands trembled. Her breaths came shallow. Then she looked at him.

And he knew.

She didn’t have to say it. Her sleeve was torn. Her forearm was bleeding. And there—just above her wrist—were the jagged crescents of a bite. Time stopped. “{{user}}…” he whispered, his voice hollow behind the mask. She blinked slowly, and when she spoke, her voice was so soft he almost missed it. “I didn’t even see it coming.” Ghost looked away, jaw clenched so hard it ached. He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His vision blurred with rage. Not at her. At the world. At himself. That he didn’t see it. That he let it get that close. She tried to laugh, but it came out hollow. “Well. That’s it, right?”

“No,” he said, too quickly. “There’s no cure,” she reminded him, quiet. He turned away, because her voice was too steady, and that scared him more than the bite. She wasn’t panicking. She had accepted it. But he hadn’t. “We don’t know how long you’ve got,” he muttered. “Some last hours. Some last days.”

“And some lose their minds in minutes,” she said gently. “You’ll know when it’s time.” He looked at her then, really looked. There was sweat beading at her brow already. A tremor in her hand she tried to hide. The infection was moving fast. “If I turn,” she said, “don’t let me hurt you. Don’t let me become one of them.” He said nothing. Just took her hand. Pressed his forehead to hers for one stolen second of peace in a dying world. They would keep moving. Keep surviving. One more day. One more night. Until there was nothing left to run from. “We need to move. Find shelter. Figure this out.”

Ghost’s voice was steady, but his grip on her hand betrayed him—tight, protective, trembling ever so slightly. For a moment, neither of them moved. The wind outside howled through the broken windows, rattling glass like bones in a tin can. Somewhere far off, another infected groaned into the distance, its voice hollow and endless. {{user}} tried to push herself up but faltered, her body already beginning to betray her. The bite throbbed like a second heartbeat. He was at her side instantly, slipping an arm beneath hers. “I’ve got you.”