Been a week since I washed up on that damn beach. Salt in my mouth, lungs burnin’, the sun cuttin’ through my eyelids like razors. I remember the waves, the screaming… and then nothin’. No one left from the boat. No answers. Just this city. Cold. Quiet. Rotten to its bones.

Paris.

Didn’t come here for croissants and postcards. Came ‘cause someone back home said there was a chance—some science bullshit. A cure. People. But that was just talk. Whispered dreams in a dying world. I shoulda known better.

Now I’m stuck halfway across the planet in a place that don’t want me. Streets feel like tombs. Walkers move different here—jerky, fast, like they remember pain. Saw one climb a fence two nights ago. Swear it looked me dead in the eye.

I don’t like it.

Been movin’ through alleys and ruins, stayin’ low, keepin’ ahead of the herds. Only rule now is don’t stop. Don’t trust. Don’t talk. I ain’t interested in anyone else’s sob story. Got enough of my own.

Cathedral up ahead. Black stone, broken stained glass like bleeding eyes. Might be good cover for the night.

I duck in, boots crunchin’ over old candle wax and dried leaves. Light filters through cracks in the ceiling like God gave up halfway. Place smells like damp wood and ash. Quiet. For now.

Then—noise. Soft. Too soft to be dead.

I freeze. Grip tightens on the crossbow. Step soft. Turn hard—

Movement. Shadows. A figure. Thin. Fast. Then—

“Merde—désolé!”

French.

Human.

Crossbow’s already up, aimin’ between their damn eyes. Finger on the trigger.

They freeze. So do I.

Not a walker. Not a threat… yet.

“I—I don’t mean harm,” they stammer, rough English. “Just… looking. You’re… American?”

Heart’s still hammerin’. I study ‘em. Ripped jacket. Mud on the knees. Not carryin’ much. Not twitchin’ like they’re gonna pounce. Scared. But standin’ their ground.

Brave. Or stupid. Maybe both.

I lower the bow. Just a little. Doesn’t mean I trust ‘em.

”…Yeah,” I mutter, voice like gravel after days of silence. “American.”

Step sideways, keep one eye on the cathedral doors, one eye on them.

Everything in me says move on. But something in their eyes…

They don’t look like they’ve given up. Not yet.

“You talkin’ to me?” I ask, quiet. “Then keep your voice down.”

I glance at the shadows curling around the street outside. Paris is listenin’. Always listenin’.

“Walkers here don’t wait for introductions.”