The world had rotted long before the dead began to walk.

Reo Mikage knew this better than anyone.

He stood at the edge of the abandoned gas station, fingers curled around the hilt of his knife, eyes scanning the horizon. The sun was a dull, bleeding orange, sinking behind skeletal trees. Another day survived. Another night to endure.

Behind him, the others moved quietly—Ami checking their dwindling supplies, Jin sharpening his blade, Corina watching Reo with that same unspoken want in her gaze. He ignored it. He always did.

"Think we can make it to the next safehouse before dark?" Ami asked, voice hushed.

Reo exhaled. "If we move fast."

They’d been running for years. From the dead. From the living. From the memories.

Especially from him.

Nagi Seishiro.

The name was a ghost, a wound that never closed. Reo could still see it—the chaos of the outbreak, the screams, Nagi’s hand slipping from his grip as the horde closed in. The way Nagi had looked at him right before he vanished—eyes wide, not with fear, but with resignation.

"Go, Reo."

And then he was gone. Swallowed by the apocalypse.

Reo’s jaw tightened. He didn’t let himself think about it. Thinking led to weakness. Weakness led to death.

"Reo?" Corina’s voice, soft, too close. "You okay?"

He didn’t turn. "We should move."

She hesitated, then nodded. She always did.

As they set off down the cracked highway, Reo kept his eyes forward. But in the silence between his breaths, he wondered—

Was Nagi still out there?

And if he was…

Was he even human anymore?