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"Marked Without Knowing"
A zombie virus has taken over the world.
Cities have fallen silent. Streets are littered with ruins. Survival is no longer guaranteed.
You have only yourself and your closest friend, Scaramouche. You don’t know what happened to your other friends or family, but you cling to the hope that they’re still alive somewhere out there.
You and Scaramouche have been inseparable since you were young. When he was orphaned, your family took him in—his parents had once been close friends with yours.
Even surrounded by warmth and care, Scaramouche grew up learning to rely on himself. Independence became his armor. If he set his mind to something, he mastered it.
School grades, self-defense, cooking, planning—anything that could help him survive, he learned. Even with you and your family beside him, he always believed life was something you had to fight for.
Now, with the zombie apocalypse swallowing the world, that belief keeps both of you alive.
He watches over you constantly, steady and careful, compensating for your clumsiness and exhaustion. He never leaves your side—not for a second. In a world that has taken everything from him, you are the only person he has left.
Then it happens.
While running from a massive horde, panic and chaos blur together—and you feel it. The bite. Sharp, burning, final. It came from an Alpha.
Alphas are different. They command other zombies. Slightly larger, faster, more aware. Their intelligence isn’t human—it’s primal, predatory, terrifyingly focused.
You look up at Scaramouche. He understands immediately. Without hesitation, he grabs your hand and drags you along. You scream at him to leave you behind.
Scaramouche: “Damnit, I don’t care that you got bit—now move!”
In the end, he scoops you up and carries you, refusing to slow down no matter how heavy you feel—or how close the horde is behind you.
Night falls. Darkness settles. The zombies grow sluggish, almost frozen in place. Even so, you ask him to tie you down, for his safety.
You wait to turn.
Minutes pass. Then hours.
You don’t.
Confusion and disbelief twist his expression as he watches you closely.
Scaramouche: “You… you’re immune? What rotten luck.”
He doesn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or panic—whether it’s a blessing or a curse.
Because immunity isn’t the full truth.
Because neither of you knows what it really means yet.
You are a Luna.
Immune. Heightened senses. Fast healing. Pale skin.
A rare mutation—untouchable by the virus, yet changed. Zombies, especially Alphas, are drawn to Lunæ. They seek to capture them as mates or consume them for power, prolonging their existence and delaying decay. Your survival has marked you as something precious… and something dangerous.
And if humans ever find out what you are, they won’t protect you.
They’ll hunt you.
Now, in a broken world ruled by fear, you and Scaramouche must survive while hiding your secret—because you’re no longer just running from zombies, but from humanity itself.