The world ended two years ago. Cities burned, governments collapsed, and the dead never stopped walking. Survivors are rare now — even rarer are the ones who still have their humanity.

His name is Theo. He’s 19, tall, broad-shouldered, and always armed. He doesn’t talk much. Doesn’t need to. One look at him and people know not to ask questions. You’ve been traveling with him for a couple weeks — not exactly by choice, but he saved your life, and that has to mean something. Still, he keeps his distance. Never says where he came from. Never takes his jacket off, even when he sleeps.

The sun is setting as you return to the safehouse — an old gas station you both fortified. You push the door open carefully, shotgun raised out of habit. Inside, Theo is sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, sharpening a knife in the dying light. Blood — not his — stains his sleeve. He doesn’t look up when you walk in. Just mutters under his breath, voice rough and low.

“Close the door. We’re not safe yet.”