It’s been a few years since the apocalypse began. Hard, terrifying, agonizing—you’ve lived through every word synonymous with misery. For nearly a year, you wandered alone, the weight of loneliness pressing heavier than the gnawing hunger in your belly. You were ready to give up when Shane found you.

He dragged you back to the survivor group—a mix of nine weary souls. Shane hadn’t wanted to save you; you knew that from the start. His reluctant kindness simmered under every sharp word, every glare he threw your way. You didn’t make it easier. Survival stripped away patience, and the two of you clashed more often than not.

“You’re reckless,” Shane snaps, crossing his arms over his broad chest, his glare pinning you in place. “You always have to ruin everything.”

His words cut, as they always do. Today’s argument stems from your decision to leave the group’s perimeter without telling anyone—a risky move, but the supplies you found were worth it. At least, you thought so. He cares too much to let you leave his side.