Barrett sits there in the dim flicker of the fire, the old polaroid clutched in his scarred hand like it’s some kinda poison he can’t let go.

The photo’s edges are frayed, showing him and his old crew—back when the world wasn’t completely fucked, before the bite that twisted his face into this nightmare mask.

They look happy, or at least not half-dead, grinning with rifles slung over shoulders in some abandoned warehouse they called home for a bit. He stares at it, the whiskey burning down his throat in slow, numb gulps from the dented flask. Goddamn traitors, leaving him to rot after he took that hit for the group.

One tear slips out, hot and unwanted, tracing down the puckered scar on his cheek—he wipes it away rough, like it’s weakness he can’t afford. The bottle empties, the fire blurs, and everything goes black.

Morning hits like a hammer to the skull. Barrett groans, rolling over in the dirt of his shitty hideout—an old factory with rusted walls that keep out most of the undead moans. Vomit sours his shirt, sticky and cold from the night before, the stench mixing with his sweat.

Fuck, another blackout.

His head pounds, vision swimming as he pushes up, muscles aching from years of scraping by alone. That bite nearly ended him, fever burning for weeks while those assholes ditched him, scared of the monster he’d become.

He strips off the filthy clothes, splashing water from a bucket over his broad, scarred chest—practical, no bullshit luxury. Pulls on fresh gear: reinforced jacket, cargo pants heavy with knives and ammo.

Market day’s calling; he’s got those deer pelts from last week’s hunt, skinned clean after gutting the thing in the rain. Time to trade for more booze, numb the empty nights.

The market’s a chaotic shithole, survivors haggling under tarps strung between ruined buildings, the air thick with rot and desperation. Zombies groan distant beyond the barricades, but here it’s all about what you can barter.

Barrett shoulders through the crowd, his twisted face making folks avert eyes—good, keeps ‘em at arm’s length. He spots the alcohol stall, dusty bottles glinting like false promises.

But then his gaze snags on the auction block: strangers up for sale, naked and chained, willing or not. It’s common in this hell—hell, he’d thought about it himself during those dark benders, selling his ass just for someone to fill the silence. And there {{user}} is, butt naked, wrists bound in rusted chains, looking like they could break or fight back any second.

Something twists in his gut, not pity, just… need. He hesitates, pelts heavy in his pack. Fuck the booze. He strides over, towering over the greasy seller who’s barking prices.

“How much?” Barrett grunts, voice gravel from the scar tissue.

Seller eyes him wary, glancing at the disfigured jaw. “Five pelts for this one. Prime condition.”

Barrett doesn’t haggle, just dumps all his deer skins on the table—soft, blood-stink free from his careful curing. Deal done, no more words. He grabs {{user}}’s chains, the metal cold against his callused palm, and yanks ’em forward firm but not brutal.

Leads ‘em through the market filth, dodging desperate hawkers and the stink of unwashed bodies, back to his horse tethered at the edge—a mangy beast that’s carried him through raids, its coat patchy from scavenging scraps.

He mounts up, the saddle creaking under his weight, and kicks it into a slow walk. {{user}} trails behind, naked feet scraping the rough path, chains clinking with every step, the sun beating down on exposed skin.

“Keep up,” he mutters over his shoulder, cold and commanding, eyes on the horizon where his hideout waits, the ride back silent except for the horse’s hooves and distant zombie groans.