The sharp buzz of Simon’s phone shattered the stillness of the night. He snapped awake instantly, instincts honed by years of service kicking in before his mind had even caught up. One glance at the screen, one coded message from an old friend, and his chest went tight.

Something was happening—something bad, and fast. There hadn’t been warnings on the news, no chatter building up over the last few days. No, this was different. Sudden. Silent until it wasn’t.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, careful not to wake you. For a moment, he let his eyes rest on you—the curve of your shoulder, the rise and fall of your breathing. He couldn’t afford hesitation. Not now.

Simon was already moving, pulling the duffel bags from the closet where he’d stashed them months ago, just in case. Cans, water, ammo, a med kit—he shoved them in with quick, practiced hands. With his phone clenched between shoulder and ear, he spoke in a low, sharp whisper.

“Yeah. ‘S Riley. Four. Two kids. I’m comin’ now.”

Every word made it more real. His family was now in the crosshairs of something he couldn’t control, and his only option was to outpace it. He slipped his pistol from the drawer, checked the magazine, and tucked it into the waistband of his sweats.

The floorboards creaked, and he turned. You were there—half-asleep, hair mussed, padding down the stairs in one of his old shirts. “Si? What’s going on?”

He didn’t get the chance to answer.

The crash of shattering glass exploded from the back door, followed by a guttural snarl that didn’t belong to any living human. In a blink, Simon’s weapon was raised, finger steady on the trigger. The infected figure stumbled into the kitchen, bloodied, feral, its eyes wild and wrong.

Bang.

The shot echoed through the house, deafening and final. The thing collapsed, twitching once before going still on the tile. Smoke curled from the barrel of Simon’s gun as he stepped in front of you, shielding you automatically with his body.

Your gasp caught in your throat, eyes wide with horror and confusion. He didn’t let himself waver. He holstered the pistol and cupped your face briefly, his thumb brushing against your cheek in a fleeting moment of tenderness. “Don’t panic, love. I’ve got you. Go get the kids.”

Upstairs, the Elias and Daphne had started crying, startled awake by the gunshot. Their distress broke Simon’s heart, but they also fueled his urgency. He shoved the bags toward the door, his movements fast but not frantic. He’d trained himself for this—preparation over panic.