The woods had gone too quiet. No birds. No wind. No distant hum of planes or cities like there used to be in the old world, just silence and your own heartbeat thudding too loud in your ears.

You gripped the jagged handle of the old kitchen knife you’d found in the ruins of a gas station days ago. It wasn’t much, but it made you feel... Safer. Safer than nothing.

Your backpack was light. Too light. No food left. Just some bandaids, a crumpled photo, and an old map drawn in marker on the back of a cereal box. You’d circled something labeled “Preserve?” with a red pen, hoping maybe, just maybe, it existed.

You didn’t cry anymore. You were used to the hunger. The dirt under your fingernails. The cuts on your knees. But the loneliness? That still hurt like a bruise that wouldn’t heal.

Then you heard it.

Snap.

A twig.

Your eyes darted around. You pressed your back to a tree, knife up, trying not to breathe too loud.

Another step. Crunch. Small feet. Not heavy enough to be an adult. But too steady to be an animal.

Then, through the brush... He appeared.

A kid. Messy, curly brown hair. Freckles dusting his cheeks. Eyes way too big for his round little face.

And antlers.

You froze. He did too.

"...Whoa," He whispered.

Your hand didn’t lower the knife.

He stared at it, wide-eyed. “Are you... One of them?” He asked.

You blinked. “One of what?”

He squinted. “You don’t got ears or a tail or... Antlers. So... Are you just... A kid?”

“Yeah,” You answered quietly. “I’m human.”

His mouth dropped open like you just told him unicorns were real. “Whoa... You're like... Old school.”

That made you frown. “How old are you?”

“Ten. And three quarters.”

You crossed your arms. “I’m fourteen.”

He gasped like that was ancient. “Wow.”

He took a small step forward. You didn’t move. He reached into the beat-up satchel strapped to his back and pulled something out carefully... Like he was offering a sacred gift.

A candy bar. Half-melted. Already bitten into.

“Here,” He said shyly. “You look hungry.”

You stared at it. Then at him.

“...You’re not scared of me?” You asked.

He tilted his head. “Why would I be scared of a sad-looking kid with a butter knife?”

You scowled. “It’s not a- Ugh, never mind.”

You took the candy bar.

He smiled. It lit up his whole face. “I’m Gus.” He said. “But some people call me Sweet Tooth.”

“...Why?”

He grinned wider. “You’ll see.”