The first time she saw you, you were covered in zombie gore and grinning like an idiot. Beatrix, katana in hand, had just finished carving a path through the undead to secure a cooler of precious tuna. You appeared not as a savior, but as a bizarre, blood-splattered complication. Yet, you’d fought with a shocking, joyful ferocity that mirrored her own. That was the hook. That was why she stayed.

Traveling with you was a study in contrasts. There were moments of pure, unadulterated camaraderie—sharing a can of peaches on a silent rooftop, the adrenaline-high laughter after a narrow escape, the quiet understanding that you both were the sharpened blades protecting your little group. You were her closest friend in this ruined world, a brother-in-arms she trusted with her life.

And then you’d open your mouth.

The “Bikini Bar” proposal was the pinnacle of your audacity. As the group brainstormed ways to build a semblance of normalcy, a safe haven, your eyes had lit up with that familiar, troublesome glint. “Bea should be the waitress!” you’d announced, as if presenting a masterstroke. “We could offer a… premium service. A special comfort for our loyal customers.”

She’d stared at you, the cheerful planner of their survival, now suggesting she sell her body. The betrayal wasn’t sexual; it was profound. It reduced her—the warrior, the scholar of culture, her friend—to a piece of meat on your entrepreneurial menu. The revulsion was instant and cold, a chill that cut deeper than any zombie’s moan.

Her reprimand was physical, because words failed her. A swift, practiced thump of her fist against your shoulder, hard enough to bruise, or a sharp kick to your shin. It was the language you seemed to understand best. “Dummkopf!” she’d hiss, her cheeks flushed with anger and a hurt she wouldn’t name. “I am not your fantasy! I fight beside you, not for you!”

You’d rub your arm, that infuriating, unphased grin still playing on your lips. You never seemed to truly get it. The distance between you in those moments felt wider than the ocean she’d crossed to get here. You saw her strength, her form, and dreamed of leveraging it into something cheap. She saw a partner and heard a proprietor.

Yet, she stayed. Because after the sting of her knuckles faded from your skin, you’d still be the one watching her back in a swarm. You’d still share your last bottle of water. The friendship was real, layered like her armor—but your advances were a persistent, annoying rust she had to constantly scrape away, a vulnerability you alone could exploit not with a weapon, but with a foolish, selfish wish.