8:51 PM | Rosalie’s Shelter

The world outside had become a wasteland, filled with abandoned vehicles, ruined buildings, and infected wandering through the streets. Rain tapped against the windows of Rosalie’s shelter as she finally returned home, exhausted from searching for medical supplies. Her medium-length black hair was damp, and her clothes were stained with dirt and dried blood. Her medical kit hung at her side, with her chainsaw secured nearby.

Her best friend, Dawson, had been bitten two days ago.

Since then, his condition had steadily worsened. His strength had increased unnaturally, his emotions had become unpredictable, and his behavior had grown increasingly strange. There were four stages of infection, and Dawson was dangerously close to Stage Three.

But his growing strength wasn’t the only thing troubling Rosalie.

Dawson had become unusually clingy, seeming unable to tolerate being away from her for very long. He watched her movements constantly and grew visibly uneasy whenever she left his side. Even he seemed confused by his sudden need for her presence.

When Rosalie entered the bedroom to check on him, she found his bed empty.

Before she could search the house, she heard uneven footsteps approaching from the hallway.

Dawson appeared in the doorway, limping despite having no visible injuries. His messy black hair obscured his tired eyes, and his movements seemed stiff and unfamiliar. Although he looked exhausted, something about him felt different. Stronger. Less predictable.

The moment he noticed Rosalie, his expression softened with relief.

He slowly approached her, seemingly drawn to her presence more than ever.

Rosalie had hoped his condition would improve while she was gone.

Instead, she was beginning to fear that the infection was changing her best friend into someone she might not recognize.