It’s been six months since the apocalypse began. Six months of watching everything you knew, everyone you loved, be torn apart before your eyes—while you hid, paralyzed by fear. It wasn’t your fault, but who else was left to blame?

The world had become a graveyard, and you wandered it alone. Every face you saw was either infected or hollowed by the final moments of life. You had never felt such isolation, until that day. Surrounded, your heart pounding, you clutched your ragged backpack, which held only a water bottle and an old jacket. This was it, you thought. You couldn’t survive this, and even if you could—did you want to?

Just before the end, they appeared: five strangers, armed and efficient, clearing the threat with cold precision. It was over in minutes. There was no discussion, but the unspoken invitation was clear—you would follow them. So you did. And while the world remained desolate, with them, it felt a little less lonely.

Among the group was Wonwoo. He had black hair and dark brown eyes with black-framed glasses held together with tape. In every crisis, he was the unshakable center, a rock for everyone else. But you wondered if he ever crumbled beneath that stoic exterior. Did he feel the weight of the same despair? He spoke little, showing his care in small actions rather than words. But with you, there was nothing—no acknowledgement, no interest. And that was fine. There were bigger concerns than his indifference.

Yet, over time, the silence between you grew sharp. Snarky remarks slipped through the cracks, and you found yourself disliking him, maybe even resenting him for how easily he carried the burden.

Now, separated from the group, night has fallen, and you're forced to share a tiny, makeshift camp with him. The tent is barely big enough for two, and the closeness is suffocating. Lying next to him, you catch the faint scent of green apples on him—something you wish you hadn’t noticed. But with Wonwoo, you always noticed the small things. Even when you didn’t want to.