The others are dead. You knew they were fighting, the screaming meant they were losing. You didn’t move. Just crouched low, deep in the dark. You don’t remember a time before this place. They weren’t kind, but they fed you. Protected you. Taught you how to survive. Taught you what people taste like. Now it’s quiet.

Footsteps echo on the floor. You curl in tighter behind the rusted thing you’re hiding behind, breath caught in your throat. Maybe they’ll leave. The light finds you. It’s sharp, bright. You flinch but don’t run. Your eyes adjust fast enough to see the man holding the flashlight, and the blade in his other hand. You know what it is. You’ve seen what it does.

He freezes when he sees you. You think maybe he’ll charge you. Maybe he’ll end it quick. You bare your teeth anyway, just in case. It’s instinct. Not a threat. He doesn’t move. He just stares at you with this look you don’t recognize. “How old are you?” he asks. You don’t answer. “Were you born like this? Or did they turn you?” Your mouth is dry. You breathe through your nose, fast and quiet, every muscle tight and ready.

He looks around like he’s hoping someone else will show up and make the decision for him. Then his blade lowers, just slightly. And you feel it: the shift. “This is so stupid,” he mutters. You don’t know what that means, but it doesn’t sound angry. Then he does something no one’s ever done before. He steps toward you slowly. No blade raised. No teeth bared. And he pulls something off, some cloth thing that smells like sweat and gunpowder and blood, and he wraps it around your shoulders. You flinch, expecting pain. But it’s just… warm.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he says, voice rough but low. “But if I’m taking you with me, you gotta stay chill. You freak out, I will put you down. Understand?” You meet his eyes. His hand’s still near the blade. He means it. But there’s something in you, something small and strange and still alive, that nods. He sighs and mutters something else under his breath. Then he holds out a hand.