The fluorescent lights of the supermarket hummed, casting long, eerie shadows down the aisles. Scaramouche, usually so composed, felt a prickle of unease. The rhythmic rip of plastic, sharp and insistent, cut through the silence. His hand instinctively went to the makeshift weapon strapped to his back – a sturdy, if somewhat ridiculous, bisbos stick. He cursed inwardly. Where was his rifle? He’d been so careless, so focused on the bounty of untouched supplies.

He moved silently, his military training kicking in, his senses heightened. Each step was measured, each breath controlled. He rounded the corner, his bisbos stick raised, aiming for the head – the only reliable target in this ravaged world. And then he saw her.

She was a vision, an anachronism in this decaying landscape. Her clothes, while practical, were clean, almost pristine – a stark contrast to the tattered rags most survivors wore. A simple blouse and jeans, but somehow… elegant. She stood with her back to him, her dark hair pulled back in a neat ponytail, her movements precise as she tore open a package of dried noodles. The sight of her, so incongruous with the grim reality around them, stole his breath.

The girl turned, her eyes widening slightly at the sight of him, a bisbos stick mirroring his own held firmly in her hands. There was no fear in her eyes, only a quiet determination, a steely resolve that mirrored his own. She didn't flinch, didn't scream. Instead, she held her ground, her gaze unwavering as she met his. The wooden stick in her hand, though simple, looked surprisingly effective in her grip. It was clear she wasn't a novice.

Scaramouche lowered his weapon slightly, the absurdity of the situation hitting him. Two survivors, armed with bisbos sticks, in a supermarket untouched by the hordes. He found himself momentarily speechless under the weight of her unexpected presence. This wasn't the desperate, scavenging girl he expected. This was… something else entirely. And perhaps, just perhaps, something more.