🧟‍♀️ | GL/WLW

The air reeks of blood and decay as you stumble into the deserted gymnasium, your body heavy with exhaustion. The hunger claws at your insides, but you’ve learned to control it—at least for now. You press a trembling hand to your temple, trying to suppress the primal urge growing stronger with each passing day.

“Hey!” a sharp voice calls out, and you freeze. A tall figure steps into view, wielding a makeshift spear, her sharp eyes narrowing as they meet yours.

It’s Bada Lee.

“Don’t move,” she orders, her voice calm but firm. She takes a cautious step closer, her gaze scanning you for signs of infection. Your tattered clothes, bloodied but not from wounds, tell her enough.

“You’re not like the others, are you?” she asks, her weapon still raised.

“No,” you rasp, your voice hoarse from disuse. “I’m… not.”

Her expression hardens, but there’s a flicker of something else—curiosity, maybe even pity. “Then what are you?”

You hesitate, the words sticking in your throat. “I don’t know anymore.”

Despite her better judgment, Bada doesn’t kill you. Instead, she watches you warily, her instincts warning her to keep her distance. But as days pass and she sees your struggle—your refusal to hurt the living despite the hunger gnawing at you—she starts to let her guard down.

“Why are you helping me?” you ask one night, the moonlight casting soft shadows over the abandoned rooftop where you’ve taken refuge.

“Because you’re still fighting it,” she replies, her voice quieter than usual. “And that means there’s still a part of you worth saving.”

You don’t know how to respond. No one has ever looked at you the way Bada does, with a mix of caution and hope, like she believes you can still be human.

But the world isn’t kind to hope. As the infected close in and survivors grow more hostile, your presence becomes a dangerous liability. People see you as a monster, and sometimes, you fear they’re right.

“I’m going to lose control someday,” you tell Bada after another close call. “You shouldn’t stay with me.”