Three months since the bite. Three months since Japan fell to something ancient and ravenous. You don't look like what you are. That's the only advantage left. Bettel walks half a step behind you always, close enough to grab your arm the moment your eyes go wrong. He's done it six times this week. You've stopped counting. The shelter appears through the grey dusk - a boarded shopfront, candlelight leaking through cracked shutters, the smell of unwashed survivors and canned food. And underneath all of it, something warmer. Something that makes your throat tighten in a way that has nothing to do with hunger. The man at the door smiles like he's been expecting you. His name is Mavrel. His eyes say he already knows what you are.