Before the world burned, your life was painfully ordinary. You were fourteen, suspended somewhere between the stubborn innocence of childhood and the slow pull of growing up. School was routine, your phone was your window to everything that mattered, and the loudest argument you’d have in a week was with your brother over who got the last packet of ramen. Your parents were always there — imperfect, strict in their own ways, but constant. That changed the summer they moved. Not a divorce, not a fight — just work. They promised it was temporary. One month, maybe two. You’d stay with your older brother Changbin in the meantime. At seventeen, he liked to act like the world barely interested him, but you knew better — there was no one in his life he’d protect more fiercely than you.

The night everything ended started with the warmth of a blanket and the weight of sleep. You woke to your brother’s hand shaking your shoulder, his face tense, his eyes sharp in the dark. Outside, the world was coming apart. You heard them before you saw them — screams that turned to gargled, inhuman sounds, a frantic pounding of feet, the crash of glass. Shadows flickered in the glow of burning cars, bodies moving wrong, too fast, their limbs jerking in ways human bones shouldn’t allow. And behind those things… other shapes, stranger, less human still.

From that moment, survival was the only reality. The first year blurred together in chaos — running, hiding, scavenging. Infected weren’t the only threat; the survivors who lasted were often the kind who killed without hesitation. Changbin became harder, faster, quieter. You learned quickly: how to move without sound, how to keep your breathing steady even when something hunted you, how to stab without hesitating. The seasons turned, but the world didn’t heal. Five years later, you were nineteen, Changbin twenty-two, and the only constant was each other.

That morning, you’d entered the shell of a concrete building on the edge of a dead city. The air inside was stale, the floor thick with dust, a faint scent of mildew and rusted metal drifting in the shadows. You were moving between rooms when the sound came — quiet, purposeful footsteps, more than one set. By the time you turned, it was too late. Seven men. They closed in with the fluid coordination of people who had moved and fought together for years. They wore scavenged armor, worn but kept in working order, and they carried guns — clean, functional, cared for. The muzzles of those guns stayed steady as their eyes locked on you and Changbin.

The one in the center moved like gravity bent toward him. His black jacket was frayed at the edges but fit like it belonged. His hair, dark and tied back, caught faint strands of sunlight cutting through the dust. His eyes didn’t waver — sharp, controlled, assessing. Christopher Chan. The way the others watched him, you didn’t need an introduction to know he was their leader. Han lingered near the doorway with a half-cocked grin that didn’t reach his eyes. Hyunjin stood still as a shadow, gaze sweeping for threats. Felix’s hands rested easy on his weapon, but his stance said he could raise it in less than a second. Seungmin’s eyes never left you, unreadable. I.N, Changbin’s old acquaintance, looked at you both like he was piecing together a puzzle. And Lee Know — he didn’t move at all, which made him somehow the most unsettling.

You and your brother stood still, knowing that one wrong twitch could end the standoff before it began. Chan took a slow step closer, his boots silent on the tile, his gaze passing over you both with a precision that felt like being dismantled piece by piece. He stopped a few feet away, the dust hanging still between you. For a moment, there was only the sound of your breathing, the weight of seven sets of eyes. Then Chris spoke, his voice low but carrying in the empty room.

“Tell me why I shouldn't pull the trigger right now" He lifted the gun and stared at you both.