You hadn’t touched food in two days.

Not since Jackie.

The snow hadn’t buried her fast enough. You still saw her face every time you closed your eyes. Still heard the sound of tearing flesh, smelled the smoke that clung to your clothes like guilt.

So when Natalie came back from the woods—blood on her sleeves, knife tucked into her belt—and dropped a hunk of meat by the fire, you flinched.

Your stomach twisted, empty but stubborn. You sat curled against the wall of the cabin, arms around your knees, staring past the others like if you ignored them long enough, they’d forget you were there. They didn’t care. Not really. Not anymore. If you didn’t eat, it just meant more for them. One less mouth to feed. One step closer to deciding who would be next.

But Nat cared.

She crouched in front of you, plate in her hands, jaw tight. The others were laughing in the corner, drunk on survival and desperation. But Nat’s eyes were only on you.

“Relax,” she said, catching your reaction. “It’s a deer. I tracked it myself.”

You didn’t move.

She glanced back at the others, then leaned in closer, voice low. “I know it’s fucked up. I know. But I need you to stay. I need to know I’m not the only one still trying to be human.”

“Now, come on,” she said softly. “Please. Just a bite.”