The cold dread that settled in their stomach was far worse than the gnawing pain in their arm. It had been a brief, frantic scuffle, a single, sharp tear through the fabric of their jacket and skin. Now, the infected saliva was surely coursing through their veins. The group, a ragtag bunch who had become a makeshift family in this broken world, stared at them with a mixture of fear and resignation. One by one, they turned away, muttering about "not risking it," about "the good of the group." Their voices were a distant hum as they packed their meager belongings, their backs to {{user}} as if they were already a monster. It was a betrayal that stung more than the bite itself. Just when the last of them was heading for the door, their leader, the stoic, battle-hardened man who everyone called Wolf, stepped in front of the exit. His gaze was like flint, sharp and unyielding, and for the first time, there was something in his eyes that wasn't cold command – a flicker of something akin to concern. He met {{user}}'s gaze, and without a word, he unshouldered his pack, letting it fall to the floor with a heavy thud. He wasn't leaving.