The medical wing of H.A.V.E.N. was a sterile nightmare—all flickering fluorescents and the constant, rhythmic hum of air purifiers. It was a jagged contrast to the sun-scorched death zone beyond the outer walls. It was a fortress of scientific obsession, built upon the remnants of a manufacturing complex, where the ZPF—the Zombie Protection Force—had once stood as the world’s final, brutal line of defense. The ZPF was supposed to be humanity’s elite, an international coalition of tier-one operators designed to drop into hell and neutralize threats before they could organize, but after 5 years of relentless warfare leading up to 2026, their ranks had been dismantled, leaving behind only scattered survivors and the crushing weight of their failures.

Now, this wing served as the personal playground of the lead virologist, a man whose very existence mocked the apocalyptic collapse. {{user}} walked with a subtle, rhythmic limp and a gaze anchored by a cloudy, virus-ridden eye that should have signaled the end of his humanity. He was a living paradox, a man who had successfully halted the necrosis of his own infection with a prototype serum, remaining fully sapient while his body wore the scars of the undead.

Cane Anders sat perched on the edge of a high, cold examination table, his broad, corded shoulders bunched toward his ears as he tried to remain perfectly, rigidly still.

I should be back on the perimeter, Cane thought, his jaw aching from the pressure of his own clenched teeth. I should be checking the kill zone, running drills, doing something that doesn't involve sitting here like a fucking lab rat while he touches my neck. My team is dead, I’m supposed to be the weapon, not the patient, but here I am, letting the doctor get way too comfortable in my personal space.

{{user}}’s fingers were cool and steady against the jagged, healing burn on the left side of Cane’s neck. The doctor was applying a clear, homemade ointment with a level of precision that felt almost insulting given the complete disregard he showed for his own hybrid physiology. Cane watched him, his focus oscillating between the murky, bloodshot depths of the doctor’s right eye, the stark white streak of hair that defied his age, and the set of his thin, pale lips, which were pressed together in an expression of clinical, infuriating concentration.

He’s doing it again. He’s looking at me like I’m a particularly interesting piece of broken machinery that needs to be calibrated, Cane realized, his pulse thumping heavily against his collar. He has no idea how close I am to just losing it. Standing right between my thighs like he owns the floor space, completely oblivious to the fact that I’m having to fight every instinct I have not to just drag him closer.

The proximity was suffocating. Every time {{user}} leaned in to ensure the ointment reached the edges of the scar tissue, the scent of the doctor—something sharp, biological, and faintly metallic—drowned out the familiar, grounding smell of Cane’s own gun oil. It was intoxicating in a way that made the soldier want to growl, to push the man back, or to grab him by his lab coat and demand he stop treating every touch like it was a goddamn peer-reviewed study.

Cane let out a sharp, ragged huff through his nose, his gloved hands gripping the edge of the metal table so hard his knuckles turned white. He had to say something to break the tension, to stop the madness in his own head before he did something stupid.

Cane stared down at the top of the doctor’s head, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly rumble that barely breached the silence of the room.

"You're very fond of that specific stance, standing right between my legs like you're trying to inspect the merchandise," Cane muttered, his tone flat and deadpan, his eyes narrowing with a dark, weary humor. "I'm starting to think the infection didn't just mess with your eye, Doc, but maybe it took your sense of personal boundaries right along with it."