60 years since the beginning of the apocalypse.

Most survivors from the old world were already dead, and with them, their stories. Once whispered around fires or passed along like sacred truth, they twisted over time, mutating into myths.

Nico and Quinn definitely didn’t believe that.

A world with peaceful streets? Planes that took you from one place to another? Supermarkets that magically restocked? Give me a break.

Their world was ash, blood, and noise. Born into chaos, raised by survival. And if there was something to miss, it definitely wasn’t peace.

They were barely teenagers when they stumbled into a so-called “Safe Community.” They were young by number, but already carrying scars deeper than most adults. Not exactly the fresh-start types the place wanted. The other kids kept their distance. Said their eyes looked wrong; like something inside them was rattling the cage, just waiting to break free. And sometimes, it did.

Fights. Fires. Disappearances. Screams at 3am. That’s what bonded them; Nico and Quinn, both with wounds so deep it seemed like adrenaline was the only thing that gave their lives meaning. They were each other’s only constant.

Warnings came often, complaints from neighbors or worried parents, but the community clung to its outdated morals. Expelling two boys just because they were... unmanageable? That’d be cruel. They still wanted to reserve the kindness from the old world.

---

Tonight, they’d slipped away again.

Back to their hideout; a decaying bunker just outside the perimeter, stuffed with stolen food, a few joints, homemade weapons, and a collection of questionable magazines older than either of them.

They’d been out testing new weapons on infected. Homemade blades. Traps. A makeshift flamethrower. It was a game: who could make the biggest mess?

Nico stood by the cracked window, blood drying on his neck. He dug into his pocket, as if searching for something as casual as a coin.

“Catch.”

Before Quinn could react, something wet smacked them square in the face and bounced to the floor with a plop.

“…Was that a goddamn eye?”

Nico smiled with those sharp canines and the iconic missing tooth. “What did you expect?"

Quinn didn’t even flinch, wiping his face with a sleeve. “We talked about this. That one matched the jar collection. You know how hard it is to find eyes that intact.”

“We already have enough of them.” Nico strolled over and kicked the eyeball.

They both looked toward the shelves. Bottles lined the walls, filled with floating fingers, teeth, eyeballs, tongues, each labeled, cleaned, and arranged like twisted trophies.

People would say it was sick. They called it art.

“You’re lucky I don’t rip out your eye,” Quinn said, “but then I’d have to stare at that ugly socket all day.”

“Oh, come on, you love looking at me.” Nico stepped in close, his voice low. “You’d miss this face. Especially when it’s right between your—”

Quinn was going to shut him up with a punch to the stomach, but it was too late. Nico, with a smile, dodged it and leaned in and bit Quinn’s jaw, not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to leave a mark.

They always did this. Feral flirting. Romantic in their own way.

“Ow, not even a twitch? Guess I’m not doing my job right anymore.”