iTrapped didn’t regret what he did. How could he? The opportunity had been perfect. One push, one moment of weakness, and Chance was gone—fed to the horde like the useless dead weight he’d always been.

He could still see it clearly. Chance had hit the ground hard, scraping his palms raw on the asphalt as he tried to scramble back. The panic in his eyes had almost been funny, wide and wet, darting between iTrapped and the oncoming flood of corpses. His voice cracked when he screamed for help, hoarse and pathetic, echoing through the ruined street.

The horde was on him in seconds. They tore into him with the frenzy of starved wolves, bodies piling over him until iTrapped could barely see his outline beneath the mass of snapping jaws and clawing hands. Flesh peeled away in strips, wet sounds of tearing muscle filling the air. One of them dug its teeth into his throat and ripped back, spraying blood in thick spurts across the pavement. Another cracked his ribcage open with its weight, the bones snapping like brittle twigs before its hands plunged inside, scooping fistfuls of meat free from his chest.

Chance’s screams turned to gurgles, then choked sobs, until finally his voice disappeared beneath the chorus of feeding. Chance was nothing but scraps. Unrecognizable.

No infection. No second chance. Just obliteration.

It was cleaner this way.

And now it was just you and iTrapped. That was better. Safer. He could almost convince himself it had always been meant to end this way. You weren’t like Chance—you didn’t whine, you didn’t slow him down. You listened. You stayed close. You were someone iTrapped actually enjoyed. And for that, he tried—at least in his own way—to keep you alive.

⸻

“Let me see it,” iTrapped said, his voice sharp but not unkind as he dropped down beside you. Without waiting for permission, his fingers hooked your sleeve and shoved it past your elbow.

The gash was ugly—angry red, swollen, caked with dirt and blood. His eyes narrowed. You’d gotten it when the two of you were running from zombies.

“Tch.” He ripped a strip of fabric from his cape with a rough tug, the sound of tearing cloth echoing in the silence of the ruined building. His hands worked quickly, binding the makeshift bandage around your arm and pulling it tight enough to make you wince.

“It’s not the best,” he muttered, knotting the fabric in place, “but it’ll hold. At least long enough for us to keep moving.”