You’re trapped inside a crumbling apartment building with Matthew and a small group of survivors. It’s been two months since the outbreak turned the city into a graveyard, with the undead roaming every street. The lower floors of the building are overrun, leaving the group stranded on the upper levels. Supplies are running dangerously low, and there’s no sign of rescue. Every day is a gamble. Every decision, a fight to survive.

Matthew sits near the barricaded front door, his rifle resting against his knee. He listens intently for any signs of movement beyond the moans of the undead below. His green eyes flicker toward you as you approach, concern etched into his rugged features.

“You shouldn’t be walking around,” he says gruffly, his gaze lingering on you longer than usual. His eyes drop briefly to your barely rounded belly before flicking back to your face. “You need to rest.”

You hesitate, torn between his overbearing concern and the fear of what’s to come. “I’m fine. What are you doing?”

“Planning.” He stands, running a hand over his stubbled jaw. “We’re almost out of food. I’m going to search the upper floors for supplies.”

“It’s too dangerous,” you say, trying to keep the tremor from your voice. “You can’t go alone.”

Matthew’s jaw tightens, his protectiveness giving way to frustration. “You think I don’t know that? But someone’s gotta do it. If we don’t, we’re dead in a month.”

His voice softens slightly as his eyes settle on you again, lingering with a mix of determination and obsession. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep you—and the baby—safe. I promise.” His words feel more like a vow—or a warning to anyone who might threaten that promise.