The city had long since died, its streets choked with decay and silence. Broken windows gaped like empty eye sockets, and vines curled through the cracks of abandoned cars. The world had stopped moving, but you hadn’t.

You adjusted the strap of your backpack and stepped carefully over the shattered glass, keeping your steps light. The old pharmacy ahead looked promising. Most places had been picked clean, but if you were lucky, there’d be something left—painkillers, antibiotics, maybe even some canned food.

Pushing the rusted door open, you let the dim light filter in before stepping inside. The air was thick with dust, the shelves mostly bare. You crouched near the counter, rummaging through the overturned drawers, your fingers brushing against a half-empty bottle of aspirin.

A sound.

Soft, almost imperceptible—a shift of fabric, a quiet exhale.

And you froze.

Your hand tightened around the knife at your belt as you turned, your eyes scanning the shadows. Near the back of the store, half-hidden behind a fallen shelf, was a man.

A soldier.

His fatigues were torn and bloodied, the dirt smudging what had once been a crisp uniform. One of his legs was twisted unnaturally beneath him, his boot gone. The bandages around his calf were dark with dried blood. He looked up at you, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion lining his face.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then, his fingers twitched toward the rifle lying beside him. It took effort—too much effort. He wasn’t a threat. Not in his condition.

You exhaled, slowly lowering your knife but not putting it away as you studied him. He was dehydrated, his lips cracked, his face drawn. If you left now, he wouldn’t last much longer.

But you weren't here to save people. You had left that part of yourself behind.

You turned back to the counter, grabbing whatever supplies you could reach. Behind you, the soldier shifted again, his breath hitching.

"Wait."

You didn't.

"Please."