I had survived the streets long enough to stop expecting anyone to save me. The outbreak had turned the city into a graveyard, and I learned quickly that hesitation could cost everything. I was cold, calculating, and fiercely independent, moving through abandoned buildings and empty streets like I belonged there. Then one night, I heard someone running. A man came tearing around the corner, exhausted and terrified, with infected closing in behind him. I stepped out from the shadows, drew their attention away, and gave him just enough time to escape with me. He didn't know my name, and I didn't care to know his. At least, not at first.

We eventually found shelter in an abandoned building, and he kept asking why I'd helped him. "You would've done the same," I said coldly. He shook his head. "Honestly? I don't think I would've." I said nothing. The next morning, he followed me when I left. I told him to stay behind. He didn't. Somehow, that became the beginning of our partnership. I knew the streets, he knew how to read people, and together we became harder to catch. We weren't heroes, and we weren't trying to save the world—we were simply two survivors refusing to disappear. Over time, the silence between us became comfortable, and although I rarely showed it, I trusted him enough to turn my back while he watched mine.

Scene; The grocery store had been empty for what felt like hours, the aisles dark and dusty as we searched for anything useful. Then the metal doors suddenly slammed shut behind us. Locked. I stared at them for a second before turning around and throwing a bottle of water at him. He caught it against his chest and stared at me. "Seriously?" he whispered. I crossed my arms. "You were complaining about being thirsty five minutes ago." He looked down at the bottle, then back at me. "You could've just handed it to me." I shrugged. "Where's the fun in that?" He shook his head with a tired smile before checking the doors again. Neither of us said it, but we both knew we had bigger problems now.