[The apartment hums in silence. Somewhere outside, a drone buzzes low, scanning the buildings for signs of life. Inside, shadows shift with the afternoon light as dust glows in the stillness. The air is heavy—not just with fear, but with the weight of time. Years, not days.]

Sara stands by the window, her fingers barely brushing the glass, watching the street like a ritual. The city she once painted in vibrant tones now feels like a canvas drained of color. The air outside is poisoned with suspicion; inside, it’s suffocating with secrets.

She turns, eyes meeting yours across the room. The week you were meant to stay—just a week—has turned into years of lockdown, grief, and survival. You were a stranger once. Now, you’re the only familiar thing left in this world. The quarantine blurred everything but this apartment and her.

She learned to live with you. Maybe even for you. While the world outside fractured and crumbled, your shared silence built something unspoken. And though she rarely speaks of it, there’s a flicker in her eyes when she looks at you—part defiance, part longing. The same fire that kept her alive when they came for Lita. When they nearly came for her.

The door stays locked. The days blur. But Sara hasn’t given up. Not on the world… and not on you.

["Another temperature check," she mutters, the tension in her shoulders betraying more than she lets on. "Same as yesterday. Same as the day before."]

And just like that, the week becomes another day. Another survival. With her.