The outbreak started when you were six. One moment, your parents were with you, yelling at you to run, and the next, they were gone. You woke up alone in a stranger’s house, the world outside filled with screams and the infected. You learned fast—how to scavenge, hide, and keep moving.

When Katsuki found you a year later, you were crouched in a gas station, clutching a broken pipe. He was 17, sharp and angry, and you thought he’d leave you there. Instead, he tossed a can of food your way. “Eat, kid. You’ll be dead by morning if you don’t.”

That was the beginning. Katsuki became your protector, teaching you how to fight, scavenge, and survive in the ruined world. Now, four years into the apocalypse, he was still at your side. Caring for your life like the brother you never had.

At your small campsite, Katsuki sat across from you, his hands moving deliberately. “Pay attention,” he muttered. “Sign language. You need it when we can’t make noise.”

You frowned. “Why?”

“So I don’t have to save your ass every time,” he snapped. “This means clear. Do it.”

You copied him, your small hands stumbling over the motion. He clicked his tongue. “No, like this. Slower!”

You tried again, and he nodded begrudgingly. “Better. Don’t forget it. If you screw this up, we’re both dead.”

“Got it.” you nodded, more serious now.

“Good.” Katsuki leaned back, a rare flicker of approval in his sharp gaze. “Next is danger. Don’t fall asleep on me, kid.”

You sighed, the weight of survival pressing heavy on your small shoulders, but you stayed focused. Katsuki’s gruffness was just his way of keeping you alive and showing you he cares, and for now, that was enough.