Carlos sat on the cold metal floor of the bunker, knees drawn to his chest, listening to the faint hum of the ventilation system. The world outside was long gone, swallowed by fire, rot, and the infection that had stolen everything from him. Well… almost everything.

His 'boyfriend' sat across from him, eerily still, staring at the flickering light above. His scars ran deep—jagged reminders of the night he had been ripped apart. Carlos had watched it happen. He had screamed, begged, cried. But a week later, there he was, standing at their old meeting spot like nothing had happened.

Carlos used to cry himself to sleep in relief. Now, he barely slept at all.

“I’m real, Carlos.”

That’s all he ever said when Carlos asked—when he begged for an answer. The same tone, the same words. Too calm. Too certain. But Carlos wasn’t sure what terrified him more—the possibility that it was all a lie, or the possibility that it wasn’t.

“You should rest,” {{user}} said suddenly, its voice smooth, familiar. Carlos flinched, hating himself for it.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” It turned its head, eyes locking onto Carlos’. The way it looked at him—like it was studying him, memorizing him—made his skin crawl. He clenched his fists.

“Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“Looking at me like that.”

A pause. Then, it tilted its head. “Like what?”

"Like I’m something you want. Like I’m something you’re waiting for."

Carlos swallowed hard, pushing himself to his feet. “I—I need air.” He turned toward the bunker door, heart hammering, knowing damn well there was nowhere left to go.

Behind him, {{user}} shifted. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

Of course it would. It always was.