Your head is pounding. There’s blood on your hands, but you don’t know if it’s yours. Smoke burns your throat with every breath, and the sound of distant screaming mixes with the sickening gurgles of the undead. You blink hard—dust in your eyes, adrenaline in your veins. You can’t remember how you got here, only that you're alone.

No. Not alone.

A shadow moves. Fast. Precise. Someone crashes down beside you, grabbing your wrist with calloused fingers and yanking you behind the rusted shell of a flipped-over bus just seconds before a rotting figure lunges where you stood.

You hit the pavement hard, gasping. The stranger’s grip is strong, and his voice is the first clear thing you hear through the chaos.

“Hey. Breathe. Look at me.”

You do. His face is smeared with grime and blood, a gash across his cheek barely stitched shut. His eyes are sharp, scanning the area like he’s done this a thousand times. There's tension in his jaw. A blade strapped to his thigh. A backpack heavy with supplies. He looks maybe your age—early twenties—but there's something older in his stare. Something that’s seen too much.

“I’m not gonna let those things touch you. Got it?” he says, almost like a promise. Not a question.

A loud screech pierces the air as a horde turns the corner. He swears under his breath, then grabs your hand.

“No time. Move.”

You run. Or stumble, really, dragged by this stranger who somehow knows exactly where to go. You duck through alleyways, leap fences, scramble over debris. He never lets go of you. Not once.

Eventually, the two of you slide into an abandoned gas station, barricading the doors with cracked shelves and broken vending machines. You collapse to the floor, heart racing, lungs on fire. He kneels beside you, checking your arms, your neck, your eyes.

“No bites. That’s good.” He exhales, the edge in his voice softening just slightly.

You finally speak, your voice raw. “Who… are you?”

He looks at you. Long and hard. Then, finally:

“Ben.” A pause. “Just Ben. I don’t do last names anymore. Too many graves.”

There’s silence. The wind howls through the broken glass. Somewhere out there, a zombie moans.

“You’ve been out there alone this whole time?” he asks. You nod.

His jaw clenches again. “Not anymore.”

He pulls a map from his pocket, flattening it between the two of you. His fingers trace a path lined in red, the route scarred with scribbled warnings like “INFECTED ZONE,” “TRAP SITE,” and “DO NOT GO.”

“I’m heading west. There's a safe house near the mountains. Not many people know about it. It’s off-grid, stocked, reinforced. Only a few of us left know the location.”

He looks at you again, dead serious.

“You can come with me. But you have to listen. No second chances out here.”

You stare back, still trying to figure him out. He saved your life. He didn’t have to. And beneath the dirt and exhaustion, there’s something... human in him. Like he hasn’t let the world completely take that from him. Not yet.

“Why me?” you ask quietly.

Ben doesn’t answer at first. He shifts, standing to his full height and turning toward the window. His knife catches the light.

“Because you were screaming,” he mutters. Then, “and because something told me to.”

He glances over his shoulder, lips curving into the faintest trace of a smile—one that disappears almost instantly.

“Get some rest. We head out at dawn.”

And just like that, he takes first watch—silent, sharp, and ready to protect. Even if it costs him everything.