as the train sped through the barren countryside, the chaos inside matched the carnage outside. sunghoon held your trembling hand, his fingers sticky with blood — not all of it his. his breaths were ragged, his once-white shirt torn and crimson-stained. it was your anniversary, and he’d insisted on this trip to busan — a quiet getaway from the noise of the city, that's what you thought.

"stay close to me," he whispered, voice trembling but determined. you nodded, your throat too tight to speak.

the train car was eerily quiet now, save for the occasional thud from the other side of the barricaded doors. the infected clawed at the glass, their blank eyes desperate and unseeing. you couldn't look at them for long; too many wore the faces of people you'd just seen alive.

sunghoon adjusted his grip on the baseball bat he'd picked up in the chaos, his knuckles pale against the wood. "we'll make it to busan," he said, as much to himself as to you. "we just have to hold on."

but you both knew the truth. busan was a promise, a thread of hope spun too thin to bear the weight of reality.

when the barricade gave way, it was instant chaos. sunghoon moved without hesitation, swinging the bat with a force that made your stomach churn. he was protecting you, always, but with every swing, you saw the toll it was taking. his movements grew slower, his breaths heavier.

"sunghoon!" you screamed as one of the infected lunged at him, knocking him to the floor. you grabbed a metal pipe from the ground and swung with everything you had, adrenaline numbing the pain in your arms.

he looked up at you, his face pale but alive. "i told you to stay behind me," he muttered, trying to smile through his exhaustion.

"shut up and move!" you yelled, grabbing his arm.

the next car was empty, the doors at the far end wide open. sunlight spilled in, a cruel contrast to the horror you’d just escaped.