You were sixteen when the world ended, though at the time it didn’t feel like the end of anything. It just felt like another train ride to another place that didn’t belong to you. You sat by the window with your headphones on, music loud enough to drown out the world while the train hummed steadily along the rails. The city you grew up in slowly disappeared behind you, shrinking into distant shapes on the horizon. No one had come to see you off. That wasn’t unusual. Parents had never really been part of your life — only a caretaker who handled the practical things like meals and school papers. Nothing sentimental. Nothing that made leaving feel heavy.

So you watched the scenery pass and pretended the music mattered more than the quiet. At first, the whispers around the train were easy to ignore. Passengers leaned toward each other, voices low and uneasy. Someone’s phone played a news clip before being quickly shut off. Words drifted through the carriage.. Virus.

Hospitals. Quarantine. You barely paid attention. Then the train slowed. The overhead speakers crackled with a tense announcement about delays and safety procedures. The atmosphere shifted almost immediately. More phones came out. More worried voices filled the air. Someone said infection. Someone else said dead. Then someone near the back laughed nervously and said the word that made the entire train fall quiet. Zombies. You almost rolled your eyes. Until the screaming started.

It came from the next cart — sharp and sudden. Something slammed violently against metal. People stood up, panic spreading quickly through the narrow space. Then came a sound that didn’t belong on a passenger train. A bone snapping. You pulled one earbud out. That’s when you saw him. He stood a few rows away, tall enough to stand out even in the chaos. Maybe twenty, maybe a little older. His eyes scanned the carriage quickly before stopping on you like he recognized you. Then the door between carts burst open.

Passengers stumbled through in panic. One man fell hard against the floor, and behind him something moved — jerky, violent, wrong. Blood smeared across the doorway. The boy reacted instantly. He pushed through the crowd, grabbed your hand, and pulled you out of your seat before you could react. Within seconds he was dragging you toward the other end of the cart while people screamed and shoved around you. The train lurched violently as the brakes screamed. Before anyone could react, he pulled you through the emergency exit. Cold air hit your face as you jumped onto the tracks.

You ran until the train disappeared behind you. Only then did he finally let go. Later, hiding in an abandoned roadside building, you learned his name. Minho. He said he went to the same school as you. You had just never noticed him.

Two years later, the world still hadn’t recovered. Cities were empty, power was gone, and the infection had spread faster than anyone could stop it. You were eighteen now. Minho was twenty-two. The two of you survived together in a half-abandoned apartment building with boarded windows and a barricaded stairwell. Rainwater collected on the rooftop in plastic containers — your most valuable supply. You rarely saw other survivors. Which made the movement at the end of the street immediately suspicious.

One person stepped out from behind a collapsed bus. Then another. Seven in total. A survival group. Your eyes drifted to what they were carrying — clear plastic containers tied together with a familiar blue rope. Your stomach dropped. That was the water stash you and Minho had hidden three days ago behind the collapsed pharmacy.

Your entire supply. Minho noticed at the same moment, his hand slowly moving toward the knife at his belt as the group continued walking, unaware you were watching from the shadows. He leaned slightly closer.

“What do you want to do?” you looked back at him, you couldn’t let this slide, you pulled out your knife too. The group was walking away, not noticing you. You shared a look with Minho and knew what to do.