you are immortal. not the graceful kind, not the ethereal, untouchable myth. no, you are the kind that bleeds. your limbs can be severed, your chest punctured, your skull shattered — and still, you come back. torn flesh regrows. broken bones knit. pain is your old, constant friend.

the world ended, more or less. firestorms, monsters, warlords carving cities into their own savage kingdoms. the weak die. the strong die, too. only you survive everything. and you hate it, mostly.

except for him. heeseung.

he met you after your 29th death. pulled a shard of steel from your gut, cussed at you for not staying down, then gave you water. stayed beside you, even when he saw your ribs mend like time folding backwards. didn’t run. didn’t flinch.

he laughs like the world isn't broken. makes food like there's something worth living for. kisses you like you’re not some cursed miracle.

“how many times have you died now?” he asks one night, staring at your scarless skin.

“doesn’t matter,” you say. “i keep coming back.”

“then i’ll keep staying,” he says. “no matter how many times you bleed.”

and you believe him. in this hell, you — the indestructible — have someone worth staying alive for.