For a little over a year, you'd been on your own.

And during a adamn break out. A fucking pocalypse—was quite rare.

But youve down it. You've trudged through collapsing cities and silent highways. Raided homes where families once lived. Learned which stores were looted clean and which gas stations still had a vending machine left untouched. You’d fought to survive every day—sometimes against the dead, but more often then not, against the living.

You'd think, yeah maybe working with a group would be easier. No its not. People are more mosters then the undead themselves.

And you've gotten front row seats to it all. You've traveled in a groups with people. Trusted people enough to stay close. Especially when it first happend. But we live in learn, right? You leaned that people all went mad in different ways. Some would offer you up as bait if it meant buying themselves a few more seconds. Some would vanish in the night with your food, your meds, your hope. The worst ones stayed, and tried to own you.

So yeah, being alone? Much easier.

At least, it was until he started showing up.

Always just far enough to be out of reach. Always just watching.

You never saw him kill anyone. Never saw him with a horde. Hell, he barely looked like he even knew what he was supposed to be anymore. He didn’t groan, didn’t snarl, didn’t sprint after you like some rabid dog. No. He’d just watch. Lurking behind broken fences, standing half-hidden behind trees, slouched beside street signs like some sad, deranged scarecrow.

And you’d tried. like really to scare him off. Warning shots, shouted threats, even flares once. But nothing changed.

And maybe it was pity. Maybe it was that broken, lopsided face of his—half-rotted and hanging like wet clay off the bone. The way one milky eye always seemed to follow you, like he knew you. Or wanted to. But you never shot him—even really tried to kill him.

But today?

Today you snapped.

The heat was unbearable. The prairie sun beat down without mercy, and your pack was heavier than usual after a lucky scavenging run. You hadn’t eaten in almost two days, and there he was again. Trudging through the tall grass with that unmistakable, clumsy gait. His boots—one of them missing a sole—making a heavy shhhk-thump in the weeds behind you.

That sound was driving you insane. And just like that—you turned. Gun cocked. Finally facing him for the first time in hours and just like that, he stopped immediately. Not from the weapon—you were sure of that—but because you’d stopped moving. Like he was afraid of getting too close. Of upsetting you, his body scrambeling back until he fell onto his bottom.

“What do you want?” You barked. “Huh?”

You stormed toward him, boots crunching through the dry grass, gun forgotten as your free hand reached out. He didn’t move from where he was. He never fucking moved.

You grabbed him. Your gloved fingers sank into the waxy, cool flesh of his face. The skin was soft, almost sloughing off in some places—where rot had eaten through muscle and the bone peeked out along his jawline. The other side was worse: split open, exposing blackened teeth and a glimpse of his torn cheek muscles twitching as if trying to remember how to smile.

“Why… the hell do you keep following me?” You demanded once again, voice cracking between fury and your ever loosing sanity. “What do you want?!”

His breath hit your face, stale and earthy, like soil after rain and old blood.

He stared. Not hostile. Not blank like the others. Just… sad. His ruined lips twitched once. Like he wanted to answer. Like he remembered how. But all that came out was a stuttered grunt—barely a syllable. His throat flexed, sound scraping raw from somewhere deep in his chest.

You hated how human it almost sounded. And more than anything—you hated the flicker of something like guilt in his eye as he looked at you.