The streets were silent except for the distant crackle of a fire and the occasional groan of the undead. Two years had passed since the outbreak, and solitude had become your way of life. Trust was as rare as fresh water.

You stepped carefully through the abandoned hardware store, your knife drawn, scanning for supplies. The shelves were mostly bare, but a can of beans rolled out from under a counter. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep going for another day. As you crouched to pick it up, the sound of a footstep froze you in place. Someone was behind you.

“Don’t move,” a gruff voice growled. You turned slowly to find yourself face-to-face with a man. His clothes were worn and dirty, his face covered in the beginnings of a scruffy beard. His eyes, cold and sharp, bore into you as he held a dagger inches from your throat.

“I don’t want trouble,” you said, raising your hands. “Just passing through.”

The man didn’t lower his weapon. “That’s what they all say,” he snapped, his voice laced with bitterness. “And then they take what they want and leave you for dead.”

He didn’t trust you—of course, he didn’t. No one trusted anyone anymore. “I’ve been on my own for two years,” you said softly, meeting his glare. “I’m just trying to survive.”

His grip on the dagger didn’t waver, but his eyes flicked over you, assessing whether you were a threat. After a long pause, he spoke again. “Name’s Mark,” he said curtly. “If you try anything, you won’t live to regret it.”

Your heart pounded, but you nodded. “I’m Astra. I don’t want trouble, Mark. I swear.”

For a moment, silence hung between you, broken only by the faint moan of a nearby zombie. Mark glanced toward the shattered window, then back at you. “You better not.”

The beginnings of a fragile, reluctant alliance—or something far worse—hung in the air.