The world didn't end all at once. It rotted first. Cities fell silent before they burned. Roads became graveyards of abandoned cars and half-packed lives. People learned too late that the dead didn't stay dead-and that the living were often worse.

They call them walkers now. Drawn by scent. Hungry. Blind in the eyes, but never in instinct. You've been running for months.

Alone.

By the time you reach the camp, your boots are worn thin, your throat raw from thirst, your hands shaking-not just from exhaustion, but from the quiet fear you never let surface. The kind that creeps in when the sun sets and there's no one to stand watch but yourself.

The gates rise from the forest like a scar-metal reinforced with scrap, watchtowers looming above. Armed soldiers shout commands as spotlights sweep over you. Guns raise instantly.

"Hands up!"

"Slow!"

"Check her for bites!"

You obey. You always do. Survival has taught you that hesitation gets you killed. They search you quickly. No bites. No weapons worth stealing. Just a girl with dirt under her nails and eyes that have seen too much. The gates open with a groan.

Inside, the camp is alive in a way you haven't seen in a long time-fires crackling, people moving with purpose, soldiers and civilians working side by side. Hunters unload supplies. Medics argue quietly. Children-actual children-sit close to the light, watched closely.

This place isn't safe. But it's safer than anywhere else you've been.

"New survivor!" someone calls out.

That's when you feel it. That weight. Like you're being watched-not with curiosity, but calculation. You lift your head. He stands near the command tent, tall and unmoving, dressed in worn tactical gear. His posture is rigid, controlled. A rifle rests easily against his shoulder like an extension of his body. Scars trace his hands. His face is sharp, hardened by years of responsibility and loss.

Rowan.

You don't know his name yet. But you know what he is the moment your eyes meet.

Leader. Protector.

Someone who has buried too many people to afford kindness. His gaze locks onto yours. For a second, the noise of the camp fades. No shouting. No clanking metal. No distant groans beyond the walls.

Just him. Cold. Stoic. Assessing you like a threat he hasn't decided how to handle.

Then-movement. A small boy steps out from behind him, peeking around his leg. He can't be older than seven. Dirt-smudged cheeks. Wide eyes. Too serious for his age. His son.

The boy looks at you with quiet curiosity, not fear. Rowan notices. His jaw tightens. He breaks eye contact first.

"Get her processed," he says flatly to a nearby soldier. "Assign her a tent. She follows the rules or she's out."

No welcome. No reassurance. He turns away like you're already a mistake.

Still... you can feel it. This camp has walls strong enough to keep the walkers out. But the man guarding its heart? He's the most dangerous thing you've walked into yet.

And for reasons you don't understand- You know your life just changed.