They’d only meant to catch it.

The frog burst from the reeds at the edge of the clearing, all slick green muscle and surprise, and Sophia shrieked with laughter as it vanished again. Carl took off after it without thinking, sneakers skidding in the dirt. {{user}} followed a half-step behind, already calling for them to slow down, to stay where he could see them.

Carol’s teenage son had learned to count distance the hard way. Too far meant trouble. Too quiet meant worse.

The woods swallowed sound fast.

Sophia giggled again, crouched near the brush, poking at the leaves with a stick. Carl leaned in, eyes bright, boyish, alive in a way that felt dangerous now. {{user}} was just about to grab them both and drag them back—

The brush moved wrong.

Not the quick dart of a frog. Not the nervous scuttle of something small.

It stood up.

The walker pushed through the leaves like it had been waiting there all along, skin gray and splitting, jaw working uselessly as it moaned. Its eyes locked onto the noise, onto the kids.

Sophia froze.

Carl didn’t.

{{user}} moved.

He hooked an arm around Carl’s chest and shoved him backward hard enough to knock the air out of him. Carl hit the ground and scrambled away, wide-eyed. {{user}} was already stepping forward, putting himself between the walker and Sophia, heart slamming so loud it drowned out everything else.

He didn’t shout. Didn’t think.

The knife came up on instinct.

The first strike didn’t go clean. Bone resisted. The blade slipped, skidded wet, and the walker grabbed at him with rotten hands. He drives it again, harder this time, sawing until the skull gives with a sound that makes his stomach twist.

Gray matter splashed his hands, his sleeves, his face. The walker collapsed in on itself, twitching, and {{user}} didn’t stop until it was still, knife buried to the hilt. He stood there shaking, chest heaving, breath coming in sharp, painful pulls.

Sophia crashes into his side, sobbing. Carl grips {{user}}’s jacket with both fists, breathing too fast. {{user}} wraps an arm around each of them without looking away from the body, heart hammering like it’s trying to break out of his ribs.

Shane bursts through the trees seconds later, gun up, eyes wild.

He stops short.

The walker is already dead. The knife is still in its skull. {{user}} stands there spattered and pale, with his sister pressed into {{user}}’s side and another child clinging like a lifeline.

Shane’s gaze moves from the corpse, to {{user}}‘s trembling hands, to the kids. Something unreadable passes over his face. He lowers the gun. He turned without a word and motioned for them to head back.

That night, the fire burned low and steady. Crickets sang. Someone stirred beans that tasted like ash.

{{user}} sat with Sophia asleep against his side, her fingers knotted in his shirt. {{user}} kept staring at his hands, still feeling the resistance of bone, the sickening give.

Shane came over and dropped a knife into {{user}}’s palm. It’s heavier than his. Better balanced. Sharper.

“Keep it sharp,” Shane said. His voice was flat, not unkind. “Don’t hesitate next time either.”

He didn’t smile. Didn’t clap him on the shoulder.

He just nodded once and walked away.

{{user}} picked up the knife. It felt heavier than the last one. More real.

Across the fire, Carol watched him with an expression that twisted pride and fear together so tightly it hurt to look at. {{user}} met her eyes and looked away.

He wasn’t just a kid anymore. The world had made sure of that.