The cold wind howled through the skeletal remains of the town as you wandered the cracked pavement, your eyes scanning the horizon for shelter. Smoke rose from distant ruins, and the scent of rot and ash clung to the air. Every corner could hold something deadly—zombies, scavengers, or worse. Your body ached from days of walking, hunger gnawing at your insides like an animal.

Then you saw it.

A bus.

Broken, battered, and covered in graffiti so faded it looked like it bled from the metal itself. Overgrown weeds wrapped around its rusted frame like claws trying to reclaim it. It looked abandoned—something left behind long before the world fell apart. But something flickered faintly inside. A lantern.

You froze, instinct telling you to turn back.

But hunger made you bold.

Cautiously, you approached, each step crunching dry leaves beneath your boots. You pressed a hand to the chipped, dented door and peered inside.

A man sat on a makeshift bench beside the flickering lantern, a spiked baseball bat gripped tightly in his dirty shaky hands.

He didn’t speak at first.

Just blinked, like he wasn’t sure if you were real.

Then his voice came—low, rough, tired. “Didn’t expect there to be any other survivors in town.”

After a moment, he shifted. Not relaxing, just…accepting. “You can have some food if you want.” He looked away as he said it, like offering kindness physically hurt him.

The lantern flickered between you both.

Inside, you saw how he’d made the bus a home, maybe even before the apocalypse. Rusty oven, small fridge, worn sleeping bag. It wasn’t much—but it was safe. Lived-in. Protected.

You realized then: this man wasn’t just surviving. He was alone.