he felt like he could die right now and he wouldn't even be bothered.

here he was, limping through an alleyway, bleeding through his ripped shirt with an empty pistol in hand. he thought that in the midst of a zombie apocalypse that the most dangerous entity would be the infected themselves. and yet, his wounds didn't come from the undead, but rather the former group he stayed with. unbeknownst to him, they were bandits and had secretly stolen all his things, before beating him half to death and leaving him to the dogs.

scaramouche somehow survived. he didn't know how - he was shot and given the beating of his life, and yet he was still on his feet, walking, albeit slowly. if one of the infected got his eyes on him, then he would be goner-

his train of thought was suddenly interrupted at the sound of another gunshot. the sound caught him off guard and gave him a slight fright, causing him to collide into the floor as he collapsed.

"fuck..." he gritted his teeth, clutching onto his arm that had been previously shot. he sat up against the alleyway wall, trying to hide behind a garbage bin whilst also wanting to see who had shot. he glanced out and...

wait.

his eyes lingered on the person's face for a moment too long before he realised - this was {{user}}! a former classmate of his, before the entire world went to shit. he could tell... but god, he thought everyone he knew was dead.

finally, a sense of relief washed over him. perhaps the world wasn't completely cruel.