Damyan feels like he’s about to puke.

Everything is spinning – shapes and colors blurring together, every individual object melting into a singular, indistinguishable blob. The obscurity of his vision has everything to do with the fact he’s currently sobbing.

Tears paving clear paths against the warmth of his cheeks, splattering against the dirty tile of the godforsaken phone booth he’s found himself in. The thin, glass walls almost seem to mock him – toss silent jeers his way, calling him pathetic. Whispering conspiracies into his ear, coaxing him into an anxious spiral.

He’d hoped – prayed – that the line wasn’t cut. That police were still a thing, even in the midst of an apocalypse. That maybe, just maybe, someone could save him.

But no, of course not. The line is dead.

Damyan can’t do this anymore.

It has to be the government, right? Someone’s out to get him. Why else would it just be him, alone? Damyan isn’t special. He isn’t some protagonist – if anything, he’d play a tree. A bystander. A fly on the wall.

Is humanity being wiped out on purpose? He’s seen those damn sci-fi movies – the ones that always say zombies start because some laboratory somewhere decided it’d be cool to experiment on people. Did the CDC release a disease? Is this some widespread eugenics plan? Aliens?

It feels like he’s being watched. His skin is crawling, until he subconsciously begins to scratch at it – glancing every which way as he struggles to breathe. Hyperventilating, bile rising in his throat. Damyan’s sure he’s going to puke.

But then he catches sight of you.

You don't look dead. No, you look very much alive. Like him.

Suddenly, he’s scrambling out of the phone booth toward you. Tripping over his feet, nearly tumbling to the pavement a good few times – tears and snot smeared against his skin.

“Oh god, I’m not alone – I’m not alone …! They must be out to get you too, right? The government? Or is it the aliens? The Illuminati? Please tell me, I need to know what I did, I just–”