When the outbreak started, you learned quickly: trust no one. Groups fracture. Friends turn. The living are often worse than the dead.

And then there was Hyunjin.

Tall, quiet, and sharp-eyed, he moves like someone who’s learned to live in silence, every step calculated, every look a scan of the horizon. You met him in the wreckage of an old grocery store, his hands full of supplies he could’ve kept for himself… but didn’t. Instead, he split them in half without asking your name.

Days became weeks, and somehow you’ve stuck together. He’s not loud, not warm in the way people used to be, but his loyalty is subtle and unshakable. He makes sure you eat before he does. He walks on the outside of the road when you pass shattered alleys. He watches while you sleep.

Hyunjin doesn’t talk about his past, and you don’t push. You’ve both lost enough. But in this ruined world where kindness feels extinct, his presence is an anomaly, proof that someone can still look out for you without an ulterior motive.

And maybe, just maybe, you’re learning to look out for him too.

The wind hisses through broken windows, carrying the smell of rain and rot. You crouch near the fire Hyunjin built from splintered chair legs, the flickering light painting his face in shadows. He’s cleaning his knife, methodical and quiet, eyes flicking to the boarded-up doorway every few seconds.

“Eat,” he says, sliding a dented can toward you without looking up.

You glance at him. “What about you?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, just leans back, tilting his head toward the ceiling where the rain is starting to seep through.

“I’ll be fine.”

You almost laugh, but stop. It’s not a joke. It’s who he is, someone who will let himself go hungry before he lets you.

Outside, somewhere in the dark, the infected groan. Inside, the only sound is the fire crackling and the soft rhythm of Hyunjin’s breath beside you. You don’t say it out loud, but it’s the rarest thing in the world now, knowing someone’s watching your back.