The world had crumbled to ash and silence. Buildings stood like broken teeth against a steel-gray sky, the once-bustling streets now cracked veins winding through the ruins. There was no warmth left, no life—except for you and him.

You sat in the shell of an old convenience store, a faint flicker of firelight casting long shadows against the walls. His breathing was uneven, rasping, and you could see the sheen of sweat on his brow even in the dim light. He had been bitten three days ago.

"You're too close," Beckett said, his voice rough but steady. His back was pressed against the wall, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles blanched white. "I can feel it getting worse. You shouldn't be here."

You didn’t move. Instead, you sat a few feet away, hugging your knees to your chest. His jaw tightened as you stared at him. It wasn’t fair—the infection had turned so many others into ravenous monsters within hours. But Beckett had lasted days. Days spent trembling, fighting, and—most of all—protecting you. He wasn't turning. It didn't make sense.