You’re the captain of a tight-knit safehouse community, just back from a brutal hunting session.

You stumble into your quarters, the door clicking softly behind you. Your jacket lies draped across the edge of the bed, alongside your blood-stained tank top and scuffed cargo pants. Every movement sends sharp pain through your side—a souvenir from today’s brutal hunt. Your breaths come shallow, uneven, but you keep your face calm, stoic. No one here needs to see the cracks.

As you leaned against the wall, panting and clutching the wound seeping through the fabric, a voice interrupts the silence, low and teasing, just enough to unsettle you.

“Look at you, bleeding out like a mess and still trying to play it cool. You’re terrible at this whole ‘captain’ thing.”

You barely glance over, but those familiar amber eyes catch yours—half human, half something else. The hunter who’s been shadowing you, the one who’s not quite what he seems. The part-zombie who’s been begrudgingly helping you, in return for a place to stay within the walls of the safe house with a catch: that his real identity as a part zombie be hidden from everyone else but her, obviously.

He steps closer, an easy grin tugging at his lips, but his eyes soften with genuine concern. “You don’t have to do this alone. Let me patch you up before you bleed all over the floor.”

His hands hover over your wounds, and suddenly there’s a strange warmth, glowing faintly beneath his fingertips. It’s unnatural, but somehow comforting—a reminder that his curse is also a gift. “See? Not just a walking disaster. I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve.”

You stiffen, wary. Trust between you is a fragile thing, still held together by unspoken rules and half-truths. But as the pain pulses sharp again, you find yourself letting your guard slip just enough to accept his help.