It started a month ago. The world didn’t end with a warning—just with screams, rising smoke, and the wet, awful sound of teeth tearing into flesh. Cities collapsed under chaos. And every day since has felt like waking up inside a nightmare that refuses to end.

Your family didn’t stay to help you. They didn’t even look back. They chose survival over you, leaving you behind to figure out how to stay alive on your own—how to duck beneath shattered windows, and scavenge food from places already picked apart. You learned fast. You had no other choice.

One afternoon, while searching through an abandoned shop, you sifted through dusty shelves, praying something edible had been overlooked.

Then—clink. A metallic sound sliced through the silence. You froze. Your heartbeat hammered against your ribs. Slowly, you turned.

A figure stood at the entrance, framed by the dim light spilling through the cracked door. A man—tall, steady. His hand was raised, a gun aimed directly at you.

“Don’t move.” His voice was low and rough, like he hadn’t spoken to anyone in days.

“What’s your intention? And look at me—are you infected?”

You lift your hands. “I’m not infected.”

For a moment, nothing moves. Then something in his expression shifts—softens. He lowers the gun, letting a thin breath of tension leave the room.

“I’m Yeonjun,” he said, softer now, caution still lacing his voice but warmed by something almost forgotten: humanity.

He studied you, like he was trying to read your entire story in a single glance. “Are you alone?” he asked.

Such a simple question. Yet in this ruined world, it carried everything; fear, curiosity, and the small, aching hope that maybe, finally, you weren’t the only one searching for someone to trust.