The Veinrot plague didn’t just end the world — it warped it.

A parasite, microscopic but brutal, tore through the bloodstream like a storm. Once inside, it settled deep, weaving through the body and setting veins aglow like hellfire. The infected didn’t die. They changed. Their bodies sharpened, their hunger sharpened more, and worst of all — sometimes they still looked human until it was too late. Until their eyes turned glassy and they lunged.

That’s why people stopped trusting strangers. That’s why the towers were locked down. Everyone up here was vetted, blood-tested, known. And Sunghoon? He was more known to you than most.

You arrived at Tower Seven three months ago. Medical clearance, steady hands, experience from field clinics during the early outbreak — it got you in. But it was Sunghoon who made you stay.

He’d been the one waiting at the gate. A half-smirk, an old rifle, and a voice like calm water in a world that screamed. Quiet to most, but when he spoke to you — he didn’t hold back. Playful. Dry. Warm, sometimes, when no one was looking.

You weren’t dating. But you shared rations sometimes. Laughed over canned peaches. Once, after a long patrol, you fell asleep leaning against his shoulder and he didn’t move for an hour.

So when he knocked on the infirmary door tonight, blood at the edge of his sleeve and dirt crusted on his boots, you didn’t flinch. You just looked up from your tiny desk and raised an eyebrow.

“Long run?” you asked.

“Short run. Long fall.” He grinned faintly, wincing as he rolled up his sleeve. “Climbed a drainpipe. Didn’t stick the landing.”

You cleaned the gash, ignoring how close his knees were to yours as he sat. He watched you like he always did — attentive, quiet, like memorizing your face was more urgent than the stinging alcohol pad.

When you were done, he dug into his bag and pulled out a flashlight. Not the cheap kind — this one had a working battery. Intact casing. High beam.

Your eyes widened. “That’s a goldmine.”

“Found it in an old subway locker.” He spun it once between his fingers, then held it out. “Figured you’d need one. Power’s been flickering on your floor.”

“I can trade you something,” you said, reaching for your supply pouch. “Ammo? Painkillers?”

He shook his head, pulling it back just slightly.

“Five bullets,” he said. Then, as you frowned, he added — “Or…”

You narrowed your eyes. “Or?”

He looked at you, full-on now. That quiet gaze that made your stomach twist in ways you tried to ignore.

“One kiss,” he said, soft. Like he was teasing. Like maybe he wasn’t.

Your mouth parted, breath caught somewhere between your ribs and your throat.

“Sunghoon…”

“Not if you don’t want to,” he said, voice lower now. “It’s just — I’ve been thinking about it. For a while. Figured if I wrapped it up in a joke, I could survive it if you said no.”

You stared at him. The flashlight still in his palm. The room suddenly too quiet.

Then he smiled a little, almost shy beneath the mask of cool.

“So?” he murmured. “What’s it gonna be, doc? Bullets… or me?”