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thatfeelinwhenyou · 7 days ago

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SAFE & SOUND — part 7 (finale)

Navigating one year post-apocalypse, when the dead began to walk and the living proved to be no better, you decide that trust is a luxury you can no longer afford. But after a run-in with a group of seven peculiar survivors, you learn that there are bigger problems than just the undead roaming the streets. You also start to wonder if there’s more to survival than simply staying alive.

word count: 27.6k

a/n: heavy trigger warning for depiction of gore, blood, killing, mutilation and death. mentions of self-exit. reader discretion is advised. lowkey want to kay emm ess!

MASTERLIST

Hope.

It has taken root. Not for you—definitely not for you. But for them. For these people who still have a chance, who still have something to fight for. Something to live for.

At the cost of your own life.

It’s ironic, isn’t it? That it’s only now—standing at the edge of oblivion, with death already sinking its teeth into your skin—that your heart decides to start beating.

Hope makes you weak. It opens you up, makes you vulnerable, carves out spaces in your chest where fear and regret can take hold. It makes you susceptible to loss. But not just the kind of loss that comes from losing someone you love—but the kind that lingers, that gnaws at the edges of your thoughts, that whispers about what could have been.

The kind of loss that reminds you who you’ll be leaving behind.

And worst of all—hope makes you stupid.

So stupid that you’d willingly run into a sea of rotting, undead corpses who cannot wait to take a chomp out of your very living flesh.

So stupid that even with a death sentence sinking into your wrist, poisoning your blood, you still care more about them. More about whether or not they’ll make it out of this alive. More about their futures—

Futures you won’t get to see.

Because you probably won’t even make it to sunrise at this rate.

The world is a beautiful phenomenon, an intricate masterpiece woven together by time, ruined and utterly defiled by the cruelty of mankind. And now, standing on the precipice of your own imminent demise, you can’t help but wonder—is this Mother Nature’s wrath finally catching up?

Is this the earth retaliating, purging the infection that is humanity in the only way it knows how? Have the scales been tipping for too long, and now the universe is finally restoring balance in the only way it can? Is your suffering—your inevitable death—meant to balance the scales? Even when, frankly speaking, it was never solely your fault to begin with?

Maybe it’s the victim mentality clawing its way to the surface, the part of you that refuses to believe you deserve this, the part that screams this isn’t fair, this isn’t right, this isn’t how it was supposed to go. But deep down, you swear—no one else in this godforsaken world is being punished as cruelly as you.

And you can’t understand why.

What crime did you commit to warrant this?

Was it the way you looked down on the people at the community building? The way you condemned them for being selfish, for putting their own survival above others—only to turn around and do the exact same thing? Because when it came down to it, when it was your life on the line, you saved yourself too.

Or was it the countless survivors who passed through, desperate, pleading for help, only for you to turn them away? And then, hours later, when the night was at its quietest, when the wind carried sounds that had no business reaching your ears, you would hear them.

Screams.

Distant, broken, haunting. And you would wonder. Was that them? Did your ignorance, your apathy, your fear—did it cost them their lives?

Or would you be guilty of something far more selfish—something you never even realised until now?

Would you be guilty of constantly throwing yourself into harm’s way, time and time again, because it was always easier to bleed than to watch them bleed? Because as long as you were the one getting hurt, as long as you were the one getting bit, dying, fading away into nothing, then it meant they would still be here. Alive. Safe.

But what does that make of them? The ones you’re trying to protect.

Maybe you were never meant to be part of a group. Not because they wouldn’t have you, not because you couldn’t belong, but because you never truly let yourself belong. Because you never matched their pace. Because while they learned to adjust to you, to move with you, to shift their decisions around you—you never did the same for them.

Would that have been your sin?

Was that the moment the universe condemned you?

Maybe this bite isn’t just a punishment. Maybe it’s a verdict.

And you, standing here amidst the corpses of the undead, bloodied and breathless—are already guilty.

But you know now that guilt isn’t an excuse to wallow in self-pity. Guilt isn’t some tragic, poetic concept meant to make you suffer in your final moments. It’s a burden, a weight pressing against your ribs, but it doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t undo what’s already happened, doesn’t reverse the choices you made, doesn’t erase the blood on your hands, doesn’t stop the inevitable.

And it sure as hell won’t save you now.

It’s a shame, really. That it took this—this moment, this final breath, this unforgiving death sentence—for you to finally feel it. For you to finally want to live.

And not for yourself.

For them.

For Jay, who has already bled for you once, who would probably bleed for you again, even though you don’t deserve it.

For Sunoo, who has always held onto kindness, even in a world that has given him every reason to let it go, who still believes in laughter, in warmth, in something beyond just survival.

For Jake, who patches wounds and mends what’s broken, even when no one is there to do the same for him.

For Heeseung, who stands between order and chaos, who keeps them together when everything else is falling apart.

For Sunghoon, whose silence speaks louder than words, whose actions hold more meaning than empty reassurances.

For Ni-ki, who at such a young age, had to learn how to survive, how to fight, how to never show weakness—and yet, despite it all, still hasn’t lost his heart.

And for Jungwon, who carries the weight of everyone’s survival on his back, whose bones are breaking under it, whose shoulders have never known relief but still refuses to put it down.

For Jungwon, who lets no one in but somehow, without even meaning to, lets you in.

For Jungwon, who despite everything you’ve done, despite every reason you’ve given him to turn away, accepts you anyway. Who welcomes you into the most vulnerable parts of himself, the parts he doesn’t show anyone else, the parts that are too raw, too fragile, too much—but still, he lets you see them. Still, he lets you stay.

For Jungwon, who gently places his heart in your hands, trusting—praying—that you don’t squeeze it.

But you do. In fact, you don’t just squeeze it, you strangle it.

And the sheer thought of it—of what your death would do to him—sends a fresh wave of panic tearing through your already fraying mind.

You’ve seen it before, the way he carries the weight of every decision like a cross on his back, the way he internalises every loss, even when it isn’t his fault. You’ve seen the flicker of self-doubt in his eyes, the guilt of his past that eats away at him in the dead of night, the moments where you swear he looks at his own hands like they’re stained with something he can never wash off.

And now—you’re about to become another name etched into his grief. Another ghost he’ll never stop chasing.

The thought sends a sharp, unbearable pain ricocheting through your chest, burning, searing, suffocating you in a way even the impending infection couldn’t. Because this—this is worse than dying. Worse than the bite spreading its poison through your veins. Worse than knowing you’ll never make it out of here.

You are the thing that is going to break him.

It doesn’t matter how many times you tell yourself he’ll be fine without you, that he’s strong enough to keep going, that the others will take care of him when you’re gone. Because none of that is true. Not really. He’s strong, yes. He’s a survivor, yes. But strength doesn’t erase grief, and survival doesn’t mean living.

And just like that—just like Jay said—guilt and regret, tethered to hope, twists into something else entirely.

Redemption.

Not salvation. Not forgiveness. But a chance.

A chance to make up for the fact you’ll be leaving them behind.

Because if this is the end for you—if this is how it all plays out—then you’ll make damn sure it counts. If death is already creeping towards you, sinking its teeth into your flesh, then you’ll drag as many of those bastards down with you as you can.

You’ll be selfish, one last time. Even if it breaks him in the process.

Your breath steadies. The roaring in your ears dims. You’re not afraid anymore.

You lift your head, exhaling slowly, forcing your gaze away from the material that barely manages to conceal the ugly, jagged wound on your wrist, away from the reminder of what’s coming.

Instead, you look straight ahead at the dead surrounding you, the bodies shifting, the hunger burning in their milky eyes.

And for the first and last time—

You meet them halfway.

The dead move in slow, unrelenting waves, their bodies pressing in, their hands grasping, their hunger festering in the air like a disease. The grotesque mask clings to your skin, the fabric around your wrist concealing the scent of fresh blood, giving you the illusion of time.

But time is a luxury you no longer have.

You take a step forward, then another, forcing yourself deeper into the horde. The dead shift around you, their rotting bodies pressing in from all sides, brushing against your arms, your shoulders, dragging their fingers across the fabric of your clothes as they shuffle mindlessly forward. Some hesitate, their milky eyes lingering on you just a second too long, as if their instincts can sense that something isn’t quite right.

Your fingers tighten around the hilt of your knife as you force yourself to match their rhythm, your body moving in slow, jerky motions, mimicking the unnatural gait of the undead.

The whispers have stopped. The unnatural echo of fragmented words that had bounced between the corpses earlier has faded into silence, but you know they’re still here. A’s people. They’re hiding, watching, waiting for their moment.

A flicker of movement catches your eye.

There.

Through a small gap in the sea of bodies, a pair of eyes stare back at you. Clear. Alive. They’re looking right at you as if daring you to come closer.

Your heart pounds against your ribs, but you don’t react. You don’t move toward them. You don’t acknowledge them. Instead, you turn your attention elsewhere and keep walking, feigning disinterest. You can see the hesitation in their stance, the slight confusion in the way their body tenses before they realise where you’re headed.

If A has spent all these months hunting Jay and the others down, tormenting them, orchestrating every step that led to this moment, then he’s not going to run. Not yet. Not before he gets what he wants.

And if that’s the case, he’s still here, still lingering somewhere in this mess, watching from the shadows, waiting for the people on the roof to get anxious and fuck up.

They know the others are up on the roof. They must know by now. After all the gunfire, the shouting, the chaos—it’d be impossible not to. You glance up briefly, careful not to be too obvious, and your stomach tightens at the thought of what Jungwon must be doing right now. Or what he must be thinking. If Jay and the others had any sense at all, they would’ve stopped him, restrained him if they had to. There’s no way he’d sit back and just let this happen.

But that’s not your concern right now. Your job is to make sure A doesn’t leave this place alive.

You’re going to cut off the only escape route they have.

Riding the momentum of the horde, you start to make your way toward the gates. The space between the metal bars is jam-packed with bodies, the undead pushing against each other in a mindless frenzy, pressing their weight against the barricade in an attempt to force their way through. On the other side, more of them do the same, caught in an endless cycle of pressing in and pulling back, neither side able to gain enough ground to break through.

Discreetly, you knock against the metal frames, pushing against the rusted material just enough to make noise. A dull, metallic clang rings out into the night, barely audible over the groans and snarls of the dead, but it’s enough. The zombies nearest to you twitch, their heads jerking toward the source of the sound before their bodies follow suit, shifting toward the gate, pressing against it with renewed aggression. The weight of them is unbearable, steel groaning beneath the pressure, the rusted hinges creaking as the force grows stronger.

It’s working.

Slowly but surely, the opening starts to close, inch by painstaking inch.

But then—it stops.

Your pulse spikes as the movement suddenly halts, the weight on the outside pressing back just as forcefully as those on the inside. Something’s jammed in the gap.

You push again, shifting your body weight against the frame, but it won’t budge.

You need to clear whatever’s blocking it. But just as you’re about to move toward the centre to check, a gunshot rings out.

The gate slams shut.

The sudden sound ignites a frenzy among the horde, the undead jerking violently toward the direction of the gunfire, the noise acting like a spark in dry kindling. The air explodes with movement.

Your breath catches as you look up at the roof. Jay is standing firm, rifle still aimed toward your immediate vicinity. He caught onto your plan.

You push forward, stepping over limp, half-trampled bodies, forcing yourself to move despite the chaos that surges all around you. The horde is in a frenzy now, the echoes of the gunshot linger in the air, the pressure of the undead shifting like an unpredictable tide.

Your fingers close around the rusted chain dangling from the gate, the metal rough and uneven beneath your grip. The chain rattles as you yank it into place, looping it tightly, securing the padlock with trembling hands. The clang of metal against metal feels deafening despite the surrounding noise.

It’s done.

The lock clicks into place, the steel reinforced by layers of rust and time. This is it. The moment that seals your fate—and theirs.

The barricade stands firm, cutting off any chance of escape, caging them in alongside the very creatures they’ve controlled and used as weapons for months. There’s no getting out of this. Not for them. Not for you.

You suck in a sharp breath, willing your hands to stop shaking, forcing the thoughts from your mind before they have a chance to settle, before you can question what you’ve just done. Before you can regret it.

You take a step back, your pulse hammering in your ears. Your gaze flicks back up to the rooftop, scanning the figures above. Jay hasn’t moved. He’s still standing there, still watching. Even from this distance, you can see the tension straining his frame, the tight set of his shoulders, the way his fingers grip the rifle like it’s the only thing keeping him steady. He’s too far away for you to see his expression, but you don’t need to—you know what’s going through his mind. He knows what you’ve just done. And he knows that there is no coming back from this.

Your gaze flickers to Sunoo, Ni-ki, and Heeseung. They’re also scanning the horde, their postures stiff with adrenaline, eyes sharp and calculating as they search for movement that doesn’t belong, for A’s people still hidden among the dead. Now that the gates are closed, now that escape is impossible, there’s no reason for them to keep sneaking around. No reason to hide. You have the upper ground now

Except—

A cold chill slithers down your spine.

Where is Jungwon?

He is nowhere to be seen. Neither is Jake nor Sunghoon.

Your stomach twists into knots, the unease creeping through you like a parasite burrowing deep beneath your skin. The air feels heavier now, thick with the scent of decay and something even worse—dread.

Where the fuck are they? Did Jungwon break free? Did Jake or Sunghoon try to stop him? Is he already on his way down here, fighting his way through the chaos, trying to reach you?

And the answer to all your questions?

You don’t know.

And that uncertainty sits in your chest like a coiled viper, tightening, squeezing, threatening to suffocate you. Your hands clench at your sides, every nerve in your body screaming at you to do something. Because you may not know where he is, but you know him. You know exactly what kind of person he is. Jungwon isn’t the type to sit still, isn’t the type to accept defeat. Hell, he might be lost among the horde right now, trying to get to you.

A frustrated growl rumbles in your throat as you mentally curse Jungwon and his goddamn inability to sit still. To listen. To just let you do the job without having to worry about who else would get hurt in the process but yourself.

But the hypocrisy of your own thoughts settles in almost instantly, sharp and bitter like a knife twisting in your gut.

Because you did the exact same thing. You went after Ni-ki despite Jungwon telling you not to. You risked everything, ran straight into the horde, made your own reckless choices—and look where it got you.

You understand him. Because you are essentially two peas from the same pod.

Two stubborn fools, running towards death instead of away from it. Two people who can’t just sit back and watch while the ones they care about are out there, bleeding, fighting, dying.

You glance up, heart hammering, eyes scanning the people on the rooftop—Jay, Sunoo, Ni-ki, until your gaze lands on Heeseung. Confusion riddles your expression. He’s not just standing idly by, waiting for an opportunity; his sharp gaze is tracking something through the chaos below, scanning the horde with a precision that tells you he’s not just watching the dead.

He’s tracking someone.

And then you see it—the subtle, deliberate signals he’s making with his hands, quick flicks of his fingers, small movements meant to be understood only by those who know what to look for. Your mind pieces it together in an instant, the realisation slamming into you like a freight train.

He’s signalling toward you.

And just like that, everything clicks into place.

They’re trying to get to you—all of them.

Not just Jungwon, but Heeseung, Jake, Sunghoon, Jay, Sunoo, Ni-ki—every single one of them. They’re searching for you, closing in, inch by inch, and you realise they’re doing everything they can to keep from calling your name, from alerting the enemy to where you are, from giving away your position before they can reach you.

But why? Why the hell are they doing this?

The thought hits you harder than the reality of your own bite, knocking the air from your lungs, leaving behind a hollow, aching sensation that spreads through your chest like an open wound. You’re a gone case. You’re already as good as dead, already counting down the moments before the infection takes hold, already feeling the weight of what’s coming next press against your spine like an executioner’s blade.

They let you go.

So why? Why are they fighting so hard to bring you back when there’s nothing left to save?

Your breath trembles as you force yourself to process it, to make sense of the irrationality, the sheer stupidity of it all, but the more you think about it, the more the answer eludes you.

You can barely wrap your head around the fact that they haven’t given up on you yet, that instead of making peace with your decision, instead of accepting the inevitable, they are still fighting for you, still risking everything for you, still choosing you, despite everything.

And something about that—something about their unwavering, reckless refusal to let you go—makes your stomach turn with something far more suffocating than fear. They are coming for you. They will not stop. They will not let you die here, no matter how much you try to convince yourself that this is how it ends.

The realisation hits like a punch to the gut. You stagger forward a step, your fingers twitching uselessly at your sides. You have to find Jungwon. You have to—but what then? Beg him to stop? Hold him back and tell him that if he keeps going, if he keeps chasing after you, he’ll end up just like you?

Your breath stutters, caught between panic and guilt, between the raw, sinking knowledge that you can’t stop him. Not now. Not when he’s already made up his mind. Not when he’s already running straight towards his own destruction.

Your nails dig into your palms, jaw locking as a new, dangerous thought settles deep in your bones.

This is wrong. It isn’t supposed to be this way.

Jungwon is supposed to be safe. He’s supposed to be up there on the rooftop, watching over the rest of them, ensuring their survival—not running blindly into the jaws of death just to get to you.

But that’s the thing about Jungwon, isn’t it? He doesn’t know how to stop. Doesn’t know how to give up. Doesn’t know how to let go. And that’s what makes this so much worse.

Because he will find you. He will chase you down, no matter the cost, no matter the risk, no matter how many people he has to fight through just to get to you. And when he does—it will kill him. And the rest will follow him into his grave.

You squeeze your eyes shut, nails biting into your palms so hard you think they might draw blood.

This is the only way.

If you can’t stop him—then you have to make sure he never finds you. Because if he does, he won’t stop. He won’t turn back. And you’ll have to watch him die because of you.

A cold, shuddering breath escapes you as you take a step backward—one step away from them. One step towards the only future where they get to live.

Because if there’s one thing you can do for Jungwon—one final thing—it’s this.

You can disappear before he gets the chance to break himself for you.

You don’t spare them a glance, don’t hesitate, don’t falter as your body moves on instinct, your mind shutting out every voice screaming at you to stop. The moment you spot one of A’s people, standing just a little too stiff, moving just a little too deliberately among the dead, you lunge, gripping them by the neck in one swift, brutal motion and dragging them down to the ground.

The impact is sickening, a sharp, guttural gasp ripping from their throat, but you don’t stop to acknowledge it, don’t even think about it—because the moment their body collides with the dirt, the reaction is immediate.

The dead turn.

And before you know it, before they even have the chance to cry out, the horde descends.

The first one tears into their arm, the second sinks its rotting teeth into their stomach, and then it’s over, the screams—raw, agonised, inhuman—ripping through the night, calling the rest of the undead to devour what’s left.

Gunshots ring out from the rooftop, sharp bursts of sound cutting through the air, but they’re hesitant, cautious, deliberate. They’re trying to clear the dead, trying to keep you from getting buried beneath the writhing mass of bodies, but they can’t tell which one is you.

They can’t risk it. They can’t risk mistaking you for one of them.

The thought doesn’t even faze you. Not when you’re standing there, surrounded by the towering bodies of the dead, the heat of their decayed flesh pressing in around you, their mouths dripping with fresh blood as they tear into A’s people like animals, completely oblivious to the fact that you’re standing right in the middle of it all.

The scent of death, of mutilation, of torn flesh and spilt guts floods your senses, but you remain still, your breaths shallow, your pulse steady, as you watch.

You don’t flinch at the wet, crunching sound of bones snapping.

You don’t recoil at the way flesh is peeled back, skin stripped away from muscle, muscle torn straight from the bone.

You don’t even blink as what was once a person is reduced to nothing but scraps of meat, scraps that the dead no longer have any use for.

You just wait.

Wait until the screaming stops.

Wait until the feeding slows.

Wait until the dead begin to lose interest, until they start to disperse, until they move on in search of fresher, more desperate prey.

And then, when the moment is right, when their bloated, rotting stomachs are full and their vacant eyes are no longer scanning for movement, you move with them, slipping back into their midst, letting yourself become a shadow among the damned.

Your feet shuffle in tandem with a group of them drifting toward the convenience store, your body moving with disjointed, unnatural steps, mimicking their vacant, lifeless motions, your presence masked by the stench of decay and blood coating your skin.

The rooftop is still alive with movement, still pulsing with the frantic energy of the fight, and you know—you know—they’re searching.

They’re looking for you.

But they won’t find you.

Not when you’re already slipping through the reinforced glass doors of the convenience store, disappearing into the darkness—out of their sight. Out of their reach.

Inside, the air is thick with decay, the scent of dried sweat and old blood clinging to the walls like an ugly reminder of what this place has become. A graveyard. A battlefield. A dying memory of safety that was never meant to last.

A few stragglers shuffle aimlessly through the wreckage, their movements slow, detached, unsettlingly human, and for a brief moment, you wonder if they’re actually dead at all. They must have pushed through during the chaos earlier, drawn in by the screams, the gunfire, the relentless noise coming from the rooftop.

Now, they roam the space where you and the others once slept, their feet tangling in the sleeping bags carelessly abandoned on the floor, their rotting hands brushing against the last remnants of the lives you were trying to build here.

Something inside you twists, sharp and bitter. You don’t know why, but it annoys you.

Maybe because, in some small, irrational way, it feels like a violation—like they’re treading on something that was yours, that was theirs, that was meant to mean something.

It doesn’t matter now.

Nothing matters except finding A.

Your plan to pick them off one by one is no longer viable. Not with the added risk of Jungwon and the others searching for you. You can’t afford to be seen, can’t afford to let them pull you back into the fight when this isn’t their battle anymore.

There can’t be many of A’s people left by now, but the ones that remain… they’re the worst kind.

The ones who have stripped themselves of everything, who have embraced the rot, the ruin, the slow descent into madness. The ones who have walked with the dead for so long that they no longer fear them, who have become something in-between, not quite living, not quite gone.

You could pick them off one by one, but that would take forever. Too long. At that rate, hunger and exhaustion will get to you first. And after that…

Well, you’ll be just another piece of the horde yourself.

You exhale slowly, forcing yourself to think, to focus. If you could just find A, just see him ripped to pieces in the flesh, just have that confirmation, that reassurance, that he is dead—

Then you could end this yourself.

You could use yourself as bait, lead the horde away, let them chase after you until there’s nothing left but rotting bodies and silence. It’s not foolproof, not a guaranteed way out for the others, but at least this way—when the horde finally clears, when the dust settles, when the echoes of dying screams fade into nothing—

A’s people will be forced to look at what remains.

They will have to face the wreckage, face the reality of their failure, the shredded, half-eaten corpses of their own, scattered across the ground like discarded meat, their flesh torn and gnawed on until they’re unrecognisable, until they’re nothing but a pile of chewed-up bones and empty, hollowed-out carcasses.

They will have to see it, smell it, feel it seeping into the very ground beneath them.

And maybe then—maybe just for a second—they will understand.

They will understand what real fear looks like, understand what it means to lose, to be powerless, to have everything they built, everything they thought made them invincible, ripped from their hands in an instant.

A warning carved into flesh, spelled out in blood and bones, a message left behind for those who survive—

Never underestimate their opponent. Never think that just because they control the dead, just because they use them like weapons, like shields, like disposable soldiers, that they are untouchable. That they are above the laws of survival, above the cycle of death and destruction that has consumed this world.

And if they value their miserable fucking life, if they have even an ounce of self-preservation left in that rotting mind of theirs, they’ll know never to come back.

Just then, as if the heavens themselves have recognised your sacrifice and decided, in a rare stroke of mercy, to grant you one last favour, the door to the backroom swings open with a slow, deliberate creak, and a figure steps out.

Your breath stills in your throat.

Of course. Of fucking course.

What the hell were you thinking? Why didn’t you consider this sooner? Why didn’t it occur to you that he’d be hiding out in the backroom—the only soundproof room in the entire building, the one filled to the brim with supplies, weapons, resources? The one place where he could sit comfortably, untouched by the chaos outside, while his people bled and burned for his cause?

The anger comes first—hot, sharp, searing through your veins like wildfire—but it’s quickly swallowed by something colder, something heavier, something that grips at your ribs and refuses to let go.

Just beyond the open door, a zombie shuffles past the threshold, its milky, vacant eyes flicking lazily in A’s direction. Its jaw hangs slack, rotting fingers twitching at its sides. For a brief, agonising second, it looks right at him—through him—and then…it turns away.

Your stomach twists.

Is this what Lieutenant Kim meant? Is this what it looks like to let go of yourself completely? Has he truly sunk so deep into the abyss, into whatever depravity he’s clawed his way into, that he isn’t even human to them anymore?

Because you see him. His posture is too straight. His movements are too smooth, too calculated, too alive—and yet, to them, to the dead, to the creatures that exist to tear apart anything warm and breathing and whole—he is already one of them.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, a single, involuntary movement—a minuscule crack in your otherwise controlled façade.

And he sees it.

A’s eyes snap to yours, sharp, cutting—watchful, calculating. As if he’s been expecting you. As if he knew you’d come for him eventually. And in that split second, as your gazes lock, everything else fades into irrelevance—the distant scuffle of the undead inside the store, the faint hum of wind rattling through shattered windows, even the dull ache of the bite festering beneath the cloth on your wrist.

Nothing exists except you and him.

And rage.

Not just any rage, not something small and fleeting, but white-hot, all-consuming fury, a fire burning through your exhaustion, through your impending death, through every single rational, calculated thought screaming at you to stop. It smoulders deep in your bones, in your gut, in every part of you that refuses to die quietly.

Because he’s the reason for all of this. For the horde. For the attack. For the pain. For the fact that you won’t make it out of here alive.

And the only thing keeping you on your feet now is the fact that you can still take him down with you.

You catch the flicker of recognition in his eyes, the way his posture shifts, muscles tightening just slightly, a nearly imperceptible change in stance—but you see it. He knows.

He knows exactly who you are.

He knows you’re not one of his people.

And most importantly—he knows exactly why you’re here.

The two of you stand on opposite ends of the store, separated only by the handful of stragglers that drift mindlessly between you, their sluggish footsteps scraping against the convenience store tiles, their vacant eyes locked on nothing at all. Their presence is nothing more than shadows in your periphery, a fleeting distraction at best.

Because neither of you is paying them any mind.

All you see is A.

And the big red target painted on his fucking forehead.

He can’t run. Not with his busted ankle, not with the way his weight favours one leg, his body angled ever so slightly, betraying the injury that makes him vulnerable.

But you? You have nothing to lose

You start forward, feet moving before you can think, body surging toward him with nothing but determination and a blade gripped tight in your hand, a blade that will sink into his flesh, will find his throat, his gut, his ribs, wherever it needs to go to make sure he never walks away from this.

Because he can pretend all he wants. He can stand still, unmoving, playing the part of the dead, but at the end of the day, he is still breathing, still alive, still a man with flesh and blood and fragile bones just waiting to be broken. Even he cannot deny that.

His lips twitch, a small, almost imperceptible movement, his eyes never once leaving yours, never once shifting to the knife in your hand. And for a fleeting second, you swear you see something flicker behind his cold, unreadable stare.

Amusement.

You falter for only a second—because what kind of sick bastard smiles when they know they’re about to die?

But then, as you close the distance, as you near him, as you see that confidence solidify instead of waver, you realise.

You realise exactly why he’s not afraid. Why he hasn’t run. Why he hasn’t even lifted a weapon.

Because behind him—just barely visible in the fragments of light filtering through the windows—is Jake.

Jake, hands held up behind his head, knees pressed against the floor.

Jake, bruised, but clean from a single drop of blood.

Jake, with one of A’s people standing behind him, pressing the barrel of a gun to his head.

And just like that—the fire inside you dies. Replaced by a cold, suffocating dread.

You catch Jake’s gaze, and at first, you see relief. The briefest flicker of hope, of recognition, a split second where his shoulders sag just slightly, where his eyes light up with the knowledge that he is no longer alone. But then—his eyes shift downward to the cloth wrapped tightly around your wrist.

And in an instant, that relief shatters, crumbling away like brittle ash caught in the wind, fragile and fleeting, gone before it ever had the chance to settle. In its place, something else takes root—something desperate, something urgent, something so raw, so visceral, so utterly unlike the Jake you know that it makes your breath catch in your throat.

His entire body locks up, his muscles coiled so tight it looks painful, the shallow rise and fall of his chest quickening, his hands clench into fists so hard his knuckles must be turning white.

His eyes burn into yours, wide, frantic, pleading—pleading in a way that digs into your ribs, twists deep inside your gut, something you can’t quite place, something you don’t fully understand.

And it’s strange, isn’t it? That even with a gun pressed to his temple, even in a precarious situation where one wrong move could send a bullet straight through his skull, he’s not thinking about himself.

His panic, his urgency, isn’t for his own survival.

It’s for you.

For a second—just a second—you hesitate, your mind whirling, trying to grasp what he’s trying to tell you, what you’re missing.

But there’s no time to dwell on it. No time to think, no time to question, no time to search for meaning in the way his entire being is screaming at you to understand.

Instead, you turn your attention back to A, who remains completely unmoved, completely at ease, as if he has all the time in the world, as if he has already won.

He’s waiting.

Daring you to make the first move.

You don’t even realise you’ve started taking bigger, louder breaths until the zombie nearest to you stirs, its rotting head snapping in your direction. A low, guttural groan rumbles deep in its throat, and you feel it before you see it, the way the air shifts as it lunges, arms outstretched, grasping for you.

Your bosy moves purely on instinct, swerving just as its decomposed hands are inches away from closing around your arm, the stench of rot thick in the air, the feel of decayed fingers barely grazing your arm. Your body moves on instinct, twisting sharply as your blade buries itself into the side of its temple, the force of the impact jarring up your arm.

The body slumps lifelessly against you. Carefully, you lower the corpse onto the floor, moving slowly, deliberately, making sure the thud isn’t loud enough to draw more attention, isn’t enough to stir the other stragglers roaming idly around the store.

You straighten up, closing the already minimal space between you and him, your breath steady despite the inferno of rage burning in your chest. Your voice is low, controlled, barely above a whisper, but it carries enough weight to cut through the stagnant air between you.

"What do you want?"

A’s smirk only deepens, his amusement evident in the slight tilt of his head, the lazy glint in his eyes as if he’s enjoying a private joke only he understands. His gaze flickers—just briefly—to your wrist, to the cloth wrapped tightly around it, to the mark of death you can’t erase.

He leans in slightly, just enough that you can practically feel his breath against your skin, cold, calculated. “Some people aren’t meant to walk with the dead.”

His voice is almost mocking, a quiet, knowing whisper that sends a shiver down your spine—not out of fear, but out of sheer hatred, out of the overwhelming urge to wipe that smirk off his face permanently. Your jaw clenches. Every muscle in your body is coiled tight, fingers curling into fists so hard they shake.

But he isn’t done.

He’s watching you, watching the way your body responds, the way your shoulders tense, the way your pulse ticks at your throat like a countdown.

"You know what I want." His voice is softer now, coaxing, as if he’s talking to a wounded animal that he already knows has nowhere left to run. “Bring them all here. Then, I’ll do you a favour and kill you first so you won’t have to see the rest of them die.”

A muscle twitches in your jaw.

Your nails dig into your palms, the sharp sting grounding you, reminding you to stay focused, to stay in control, to not let him get inside your head. But he’s poking the bear, prodding, testing your limits, waiting to see if you’ll snap, if you’ll give him exactly what he wants.

But you won’t.

You tilt your head slightly, eyes locking onto his, gaze unwavering. And then, you smile—a slow, sharp, deliberate thing that doesn’t reach your eyes.

"You’re lucky I wasn’t with them the first time you came around," you taunt, voice like razor wire slipping between your teeth. "If I was, you wouldn’t be here today."

It’s small, almost imperceptible, but it’s there—the slightest tightening of his jaw, the faintest shift in his smirk. But just as quickly, it’s gone, replaced with something colder, sharper, something that tells you he isn’t nearly as amused as he pretends to be.

He leans back ever so slightly, tilting his chin upward, watching you through lidded eyes, his expression unreadable but for the lazy smirk that lingers at the corner of his mouth. There’s something infuriating about the way he looks at you—like he’s already won, like this is just another game to him and you’re nothing more than a predictable piece moving exactly where he expects you to.

And then, with the same air of condescension, his voice drips with mock sympathy.

“Bold words,” he murmurs, gaze dropping to your wrist again, his smirk curling cruelly. “For someone who’s decaying from the inside out.”

You scoff, a sharp sound that escapes before you can stop it, too raw, too bitter. The sound catches the attention of a nearby zombie, its head snapping toward you with an unsettling quickness. Your pulse spikes, breath halting as you brace yourself, waiting—watching as its cloudy, lifeless eyes bore into you, as its decayed jaw slackens just slightly, the hunger instinctually drawing it closer.

But then—just as quickly—it loses interest. It turns away, wandering aimlessly once more, the absence of immediate movement or sound enough for it to forget you exist.

Still, the close call is a warning, a reminder of the tightrope you’re walking. One wrong move, one misstep, and this entire situation implodes.

Your grip tightens around the handle of your knife, fingers twitching at your sides, restless, itching to do something—anything. It would be so easy to lunge at him, to close the gap and drive the blade right into his throat before he has a chance to react. So easy. But that flicker of impulse is immediately stamped down by the harsh reality pressing into you from all sides.

Jake is still here. Alive, but restrained. One wrong move from you and A wouldn’t hesitate. He wouldn’t need to. He’d give the signal and Jake would be dead before you could even reach him.

And then there’s the other problem.

If Jake is here, tied up and weaponless, then where the hell are Jungwon and Sunghoon?

Your mind races, scanning every darkened corner, every shifting silhouette. But there’s no sign of them. No indication that they’re nearby. That realisation twists deep in your gut. Why is Jake alone? Where are they? What the hell happened?

You don’t have an answer. And that uncertainty sits like a loaded gun in your chest.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, restless, searching, fidgeting with a tension that has nowhere to go. Every instinct in your body is screaming at you to act, to move, to do something, but you’re trapped in this silent battle of wills, locked in a standstill with no clear path forward. Your mind races through every possibility, every potential way out of this mess, every scenario where you and Jake walk away from this moment alive and victorious. But the answers aren’t coming fast enough, and the air in the convenience store feels heavier, thicker, pressing down on you like a slow suffocation.

And then—you feel it.

The cold, unyielding press of metal against your lower back.

Your breath catches in your throat, a sharp inhale freezing mid-motion as the weight of realisation crashes down on you all at once.

A loaded gun.

For a second, you almost don’t recognise it, almost don’t remember that it’s even there, tucked securely into your belt, hidden beneath the layers of fabric and blood. It had been an afterthought, an object tucked away with no real intention of use, something you’d taken before everything spiralled, not because you had a plan for it, but because you needed a safety net. Something—anything—to hold onto in case everything went wrong.

You never learned how to shoot. Not properly, at least. You were never given the chance. Growing up, the idea of wielding a firearm had been as distant to you as a foreign concept, something seen only in movies, something you assumed you’d never have to understand, let alone master. You don’t expect to see guns out in the open for sale in the bustling streets of Seoul. And even after the world fell apart, even after survival became a daily battle against death itself, it’s rare to come across one.

And frankly, you never saw the point. A gun without proper aim is nothing but a loud, clumsy liability, something that could just as easily get you killed as it could save you. So why carry one? Why even bother when you’ve survived this long without one?

There is one bullet in the chamber.

Not for A.

Not for his people.

For you.

It had been your contingency plan, your last resort, the one unshakable guarantee that no matter how bad things got, no matter how horrifying or painful or inescapable the situation became, you wouldn’t suffer. If the horde overwhelmed you, if there was no way out, if you were backed into a corner with no escape, you wouldn’t let yourself be torn apart piece by piece, wouldn’t let yourself become something less than human. You wouldn’t give the world the satisfaction of watching you die in agony.

You’ve seen them clawing at the dirt, crying out, calling for help that never came. You’ve heard the guttural, gurgling sounds of people choking on their own blood, felt the sickening dread of knowing that it could have just as easily been you.

And if you were ever put in a position where the only certainty left was how you would die—you’d make that choice yourself.

And thus, the opportunity presents itself.

A isn’t armed. You noticed it earlier, a small detail that didn’t quite sink in at first—how his movements were too relaxed, how his hands never once reached for a weapon, how his entire demeanour was soaked in unwavering, untouchable confidence. He never needed a weapon. He never wanted one. Not when he had other people to do the dirty work for him. Not when he truly believed no one could touch him.

That’s how arrogant he is. How assured he is in his control over the situation.

And that’s his mistake.

Because it means the only real threat here is the gun trained on Jake’s skull, the one held in steady, unwavering hands by one of A’s people. That’s the real obstacle. That’s what’s keeping you locked in place. That’s the only thing standing between you and the end of this.

All you have to do is take them out first.

The thought slams into you like a jolt of electricity, sending adrenaline surging through your body. If you can eliminate the shooter before they have time to react, before they have time to pull the trigger—then Jake is safe.

And A is nothing

Your eyes flicker toward Jake, searching for any indication that there’s more waiting in the shadows, another gun trained on you that you haven’t noticed yet. You can’t afford to make a mistake.

Jake meets your gaze, and without hesitation, he blinks once.

One blink. No other threats. One blink. He’s ready.

A watches you, his lips curling slightly, like he can already see through you, like he knows you’re scheming, planning, biding your time. He tilts his head, voice dipping into something almost casual, like you aren’t standing here, seconds away from tearing him apart.

“You met them a little over a week ago,” he murmurs, his gaze sharp and assessing. “You shouldn’t be tied down to their fate.”

You exhale slowly, carefully shifting your weight, your fingers inching toward the gun, deliberate, unhurried. Keep him talking. Keep him distracted.

“I’ll decide my own fate,” you mutter, eyes locked onto his. “I don’t need you to tell me that.”

A chuckles, the sound quiet but mocking, like he’s already won. Like this is nothing more than a game to him. His gaze flickers briefly to your bandaged wrist, then back to your face.

“Little advice for you, kid.” He takes a slow step forward, but you don’t flinch. You keep your stance firm, your hand still moving, creeping over the fabric of your shirt, closer to the gun. “Getting tied to people gets you killed. But I mean, you already knew that, didn’t you?”

Your fingers brush over the cool metal, curling around the grip.

You offer him a slow, humorless smile, tilting your head just slightly.

“Well,” you murmur, pressing your fingers to the safety.

Click.

“Some of us aren’t total monsters.”

And then, before he can react—before he can move—

You pull the trigger.

The explosion of sound is deafening. The recoil snaps through your arm, a jarring force you weren’t prepared for, and the bullet veers off course. It doesn’t land where you aimed—it buries itself into the shooter’s shoulder instead of their head.

Fuck.

The man staggers back with a choked grunt, his grip on Jake momentarily loosening as pain jolts through his body.

Jake reacts in an instant. He lunges, slamming his full weight into the injured man, the two of them crashing to the ground in a tangled heap of limbs, knocking over supplies and sending debris scattering.

The gun clatters, skidding across the floor.

You barely register the chaos behind you, because the moment the shot rings out, A moves.

Before you can raise your weapon again, before you can so much as take a breath, he’s already on you. He’s fast. Faster than you anticipated. Faster than you.

His hands slam into your shoulders, knocking you backward, the force nearly sending you sprawling. You fight back, snarling, twisting in his grip, but he’s stronger. Too strong. You can’t break free.

The dead outside have heard the gunshot and they are coming.

You feel them before you see them. The groans rising like a tide, the slow shuffle of feet gaining momentum, the weight of their rotting hunger pressing into the air, suffocating and thick.

You twist in A’s grip, your movements frantic, desperate, every muscle in your body straining as you try to break free. But his hold is unyielding, his fingers digging into your arms like iron clamps, his strength overpowering yours with terrifying ease. You can feel it—the walls closing in, the suffocating weight of bodies pressing toward you from all directions, the sharp sting of panic threatening to steal your breath.

“Jake, hurry!” Your voice is sharp, nearly cracking under the sheer force of your desperation.

But Jake is not a fighter. He’s struggling, barely holding his own as he wrestles with A’s man, managing to keep him from reclaiming the gun but only just. His opponent is heavier, stronger, and the blood gushing from the fresh bullet wound has only made him more reckless, more desperate.

The dead are nearly here.

The scent of blood is thick in the air, drawing them in like moths to a flame. You can feel the heat of their decaying bodies pressing closer, their guttural moans blending into a single, endless drone, the sound of hunger, of death. If you can’t get out of this, if there’s no escape, then you have to make sure A doesn’t either. You have to make sure that no matter what happens, no matter who gets out of this alive, he doesn’t. No chance to slip back into the horde. No chance to hide among the dead. No chance to run.

You tighten your grip around the handle of your knife and thrash wildly, your strikes reckless, driven by pure instinct. You don’t care if you cut yourself in the process, don’t care if the blade grazes your own skin, drawing shallow, stinging lines of crimson. All that matters is that it lands. That it finds him.

A jerks back suddenly, his entire body flinching, and you see it—the change in his face, the split second of realisation, of pain. Then your eyes drop to the large, red gash on the side of his neck.

You should’ve cut deeper. You should’ve slashed his throat clean through—ended him right then and there. But it doesn’t matter now. Blood is already seeping from the gash in his neck, slow and steady. It’s enough. It’s already too late.

Both of you are exposed.

A’s eyes dart wildly around, searching for an exit, but there’s nowhere to hide, nowhere to run. The dead are closing in from every side, their rotting hands reaching, clawing, desperate to feed. And if A’s man still had any instinct for self-preservation left, he’d leave Jake and slam the door shut behind him, locking both you and A out with the monsters.

"Let go!" A snarls, his voice rough with panic as he struggles to pry you off him, his hands shoving at your arms, trying to shove you away. But you don’t budge. You won’t. You tighten your grip, interlocking your fingers around his waist, locking yourself to him like a shackle, and you’re not letting go.

Not until he’s dead.

And just as you think this is it—just as you feel the first flicker of real, visceral fear rise up in your chest, just as the cold, sharp edges of inevitability sink their claws into you, just as the thought creeps into your mind that maybe you really should’ve saved that last bullet for yourself—

Gunfire.

The air explodes with the sound of gunshots, sharp and relentless, each blast cutting through the night like a violent crack of thunder. The dead closest to you drop instantly, their bodies collapsing one by one, skulls shattering as bullets find their mark.

A’s grip on you falters.

And then, they rush in. Descending upon the chaos with deadly precision, their movements quick, cutting through the horde with ruthless efficiency. The tide turns in an instant.

Sunghoon is the first to reach Jake, his blade flashing as he knocks A’s man off balance, wrenching him away before he can reach for the gun again. Together, he and Jake overpower him, slamming him down against the floor.

Meanwhile, Sunoo and Heeseung step between you and A, weapons raised, forming an impenetrable barrier between you and the man who ruined everything. Their eyes burn with unspoken intent, with the quiet, simmering rage of those who have had enough.

Jungwon, Jay, and Ni-ki hold the line, their gunfire keeping the dead at bay, preventing them from pressing in too close.

“Move!” Heeseung barks. “Inside! Now!”

No one hesitates.

You scramble, breath ragged, every muscle in your body screaming in protest, heart slamming in your chest as you follow the others through the narrow threshold. The door to the back is right there—safety is right there—

And then—

BANG.

You turn just in time to see A crumple to the floor, both of his ankles torn through with bullet wounds, both of his legs rendered completely useless.

Jay stands over him, gun still aimed, his breathing heavy, his face cold, empty. He doesn’t say anything. Just watches as A writhes in pain, as he bleeds, as he realises.

Realises that he won’t be running. That he won’t be escaping. That he will be left behind.

And yet—even now, even with blood pooling beneath him, even with the moans of the dead growing closer, even with death right in front of him—A doesn’t beg. He doesn’t plead for his life. He doesn’t ask for mercy.

Because A would rather die than put down his fucking ego.

Jay scoffs, the corner of his mouth twitching in disgust, and then he spits on him before turning his back, walking away, leaving him to his fate.

Jungwon is the last one through the door, covering the retreat, making sure everyone is inside before he slams the door shut behind him.

And then—

Silence.

Except for the sound of the dead finally reaching their meal.

After that, the dead collide against the barricade almost instantly. Fists pound against the door, muffled groans spilling through the matter. the suffocating chorus of hunger and decay filling the space. The sound is deafening, the sheer force of their weight against the door sending vibrations through the walls, amplified by the echoes bouncing off it.

Heeseung, Sunoo, and Jungwon move fast, dragging a heavy metal shelf in front of the door. It’s not much, but it’ll hold—for now. The dead lose interest when the noise dies down, but that could take hours. And hours are something you don’t exactly have.

Ni-ki moves toward the nearest lantern, striking a match and casting the room in dim, flickering light.

And that’s when you see them. The faces of the people you thought you’d never see again.

“You just signed all of our death warrants, you bitch—” The gunshot splits through the air like a whipcrack, the force of it reverberating in your chest, leaving a high-pitched ringing in your ears.

“Dude, a little warning wouldn’t hurt.” Sunghoon winces, hands flying to the sides of his head. Your gaze darts toward the source of the shot, chest heaving.

A’s man slumps lifelessly against the wall, blood seeping from the hole in his forehead, his body sliding to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. For a moment, you had forgotten about his presence.

You shift your gaze to Jungwon standing above him with his gun still raised, smoke curling from the barrel, his face unreadable, eerily blank, like he didn’t just pull the trigger.

Jungwon exhales sharply, pushing his weapon back into his belt before turning to Jake, his tone clipped, demanding, frustration bleeding through the words. “Jake. What the hell happened?”

He doesn’t look at you. Not once. But you feel it—the weight of his awareness, the way his presence feels suffocating, like he’s fighting every urge in his body to acknowledge you.

Jake runs a hand down his face, shaking his head, muttering under his breath before looking up. “I was prepping for the procedure, and he jumped me. God, these freaks are everywhere. I might end up with PTSD.”

Procedure?

Your eyes flicker downward, only now registering the assortment of supplies spread out across a tattered t-shirt on the floor. A whole bottle of antiseptic. Some painkillers and a shit ton of gauze. But it’s the saw that makes your stomach twist, the metal edge reflecting back at you.

Your stomach lurches.

“What the hell is going on?” You rip the mask off your head, the stale scent of rotting flesh still clinging to your skin, to your clothes, making you want to peel yourself apart just to feel clean again. The weight of the air shifts, thickening like a storm cloud about to break as every gaze in the room lands on you.

It’s Jake who speaks first, voice heavy with something you don’t want to name.

“We’re taking it off.”

Your breath catches. The words take a second to register. “What?”

Jake doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t waver. He just stares at you, deadpan, like he didn’t just say the most absurd thing imaginable.

“We’re amputating your arm.”

You’re not stupid. You know exactly what they’re suggesting. You’re not oblivious to the ‘Zombie Apocalypse Movie Logic 101’ that claims amputating an infected limb can stop the spread. It’s the golden rule in every survival horror scenario—get bit, cut it off fast enough, and you live.

But that’s the movies. That’s the neat, sanitised version of survival. The one where things make sense, where there are rules to follow and a clear cause-and-effect.

This? This is real. This is your arm. Your flesh and bone and veins and muscle, all still attached to you, still functioning, still yours. And in just a few minutes, they want to rip it from you. To cut it off like it’s nothing more than dead weight.

Your stomach churns, nausea curling at the edges of your ribs, pressing against your lungs.

Heeseung nods, stepping in. “We don’t have a choice. If we don’t—”

“We don’t even know if it’ll work,” you cut in, voice sharp, the panic rising in your chest. “That’s just—movie logic. ‘Cut the limb and you won’t turn.’ But this isn’t a movie, Heeseung.”

Jake shakes his head. “Lieutenant Kim said it would work.”

Your pulse spikes. “And you’re just taking her word for it?”

“She was bit.”

You freeze.

“She came into the treatment facility with her stump that day,” Jake says, his gaze never leaving yours. “Because of a zombie bite. I didn’t know it then, but that’s what happened. She was bit, they cut it off, and she survived.”

You stare at him, your mind racing.

“She told you this? Just gave up that information out of the kindness of her heart?” You scoff, but there’s no humour behind it. “With what intentions?”

Jake’s jaw clenches, his fingers twitching slightly against his thigh, like he’s holding something back. “She said she’d tell us how to keep you alive if we let her go.”

Your breath stutters, your pulse hammering against your ribs, slamming against your skull. Your arm. Your fucking arm.

“Lieutenant Kim survived,” he presses. “She’s living proof that it works.”

“She’s also a manipulative liar,” you snap back, the words sharp, defensive, because you need them to understand. “She told you that to get inside your head. She knew I’d been bitten, and she knew you’d do anything to—”

“To save you.”

You turn to Jungwon instinctively, expecting to see determination in his face, that unwavering resolve, that look he always carries—the one that says he knows exactly what to do, that he has a plan, that everything will work out because he will make it work.

But it’s not there.

“She knew we’d do anything to save you,” he repeats, softer this time, but just as certain. His eyes bore into yours, dark and unyielding, like he’s trying to force you to understand something. Something you already know, but can’t let yourself believe.

"Even if it did work,” you swallow thickly, forcing the words out through the lump in your throat, “It’s been—what, close to an hour since it happened? Wouldn’t it be too late for that?"

Jungwon doesn’t answer immediately. He just looks at you, like he’s seeing through every single excuse you’re trying to build, every wall you’re scrambling to put up. And when he finally speaks, his voice is so quiet, so wrecked, that it nearly breaks you.

"Please, Y/N." His lips part like there’s more he wants to say, like there’s a thousand different ways he’s trying to beg you to let them do this.

It’s not that you don’t believe them. In fact, you want to. Hell, if there’s even the slightest chance that this could save you, shouldn’t you be grasping at it with both hands? Shouldn’t you be clinging to it like a lifeline, like a drowning person reaching for the surface, desperate to breathe? The opportunity to live is being presented to you so clearly, placed right in front of you on a silver fucking platter, and all you have to do is take it. Just say yes. Just let them do this, let them save you.

You don’t have to die.

You can stay. You can keep going. You can keep living with them. You can wake up tomorrow with a future still ahead of you, with people still beside you, with hands that still reach out for you, that hold you.

But it sounds too good to be true. And frankly?

You’re fucking terrified.

Because losing an arm in the apocalypse isn’t just an injury—it’s a compromise, a cost you carry long after the blood has dried and the pain has dulled. It’s not just about surviving the amputation, gritting your teeth through the unbearable agony, or hoping the infection doesn’t creep past the point of no return. It’s what follows. The dull throb of vulnerability that will never quite fade. The countless things you won’t be able to do anymore, the tasks that used to be second nature suddenly becoming battles of their own. The way you’ll be slower, more dependent. The fear that you’ll no longer be an asset, but a burden.

And for someone like you, who’s only ever known survival as a solitary act—who’s always been prepared to run, to fight, to make the hard call alone—that sheer helplessness is the worst fate of all.

Otherwise put, it’s another death sentence all on its own.

But then, a sobering realisation creeps in, subtle and quiet at first, like the distant onset of dawn after a long, harrowing night.

That line of thinking, that desperate need to prove yourself—to do everything alone—that’s exactly what got you bitten in the first place.

You went after Ni-ki because you couldn’t sit still. Because you couldn’t trust someone else to save him. Because some part of you believed it had to be you. That it always had to be you.

You were wrong.

And now, looking around at their faces—worn, bloodied, exhausted, but here—you finally understand something that’s eluded you until now: you were never alone to begin with. You never had to be. You were so afraid of becoming a burden that you never stopped to realise they wanted you here. That they would’ve carried you if your legs gave out. That if you lost one arm, you still had the arms of seven others, ready to catch you if you fell, ready to fight beside you, to lift you back up, to remind you that survival isn’t about strength—it’s about togetherness.

So what if you’re missing an arm?

You’re not missing them.

And with that thought—terrifying and hopeful all at once—you realise you’re not afraid to try. Not anymore.

There’s hope. And this time, you’re not pushing it away.

You take a breath. You let it out. You force your voice to steady itself when you finally say, “Okay. Do it.”

The moment the words leave your lips, the tension in the room shifts. You hold Jungwon’s gaze, refusing to look away, watching the way his body visibly relaxes, the way his shoulders sag with something close to relief.

But before you can even dwell on it, Jake’s hand is grabbing yours, his fingers wrapping around yours with a steady, grounding pressure. “Which brings me to the part after we cut it off,” he says, and there’s something in his tone that makes your stomach twist.

He hesitates for just a second—just long enough for the weight of his words to sink in—before squeezing your hand, his grip firm, unwavering, serious. “Look, I’m no expert,” he admits, his voice quieter now, but no less intense. “I don’t know the first thing about amputation. But what I do know is that we can’t afford to waste time trying to control the bleeding.” His jaw tightens. “You’ll bleed out before we even get the chance.”

Your pulse pounds in your ears. You know he’s right..

But still, the words land like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from your lungs, making everything feel too real all at once.

“What are you suggesting?” you ask, and even though your voice is steady, even though you manage to keep yourself from shaking, there’s no mistaking the apprehension laced between the syllables.

Jake doesn’t hesitate this time.

“We cauterise,” he says, and the moment the word leaves his mouth, a cold chill slithers down your spine.

Burn.

“We burn the tissue to seal off the blood vessels.”

The room goes deathly quiet.

You don’t move.

No one does.

The words settle in the air like smoke, heavy and suffocating, curling around your ribs, pressing into your lungs, sinking into the marrow of your bones.

You should have expected this. You did expect this.

But that doesn’t make it any easier to hear.

The image is already forming in your mind—the glowing red metal, the searing pain, the smell of burning flesh—your flesh. You can practically hear the hiss of skin melting away, the crackling of heat against raw, open muscle.

“You had the cloth tied tightly around your wrist. It’s not much, but it probably helped slow the circulation in your arm,” Jake says as he works, his voice steady but urgent. “But just to be safe, we’ll go higher up. Okay?”

Jake’s hands move quickly now, faster than your thoughts can catch up. He tightens the belt high around your arms—farther up than where the bite is, closer to your bicep—just above the elbow, his knuckles pale from how hard he’s pulling, and you can already feel the tension building, the dull ache beginning to throb beneath your skin as the circulation cuts off, but it’s nothing compared to what’s coming, and everyone in the room knows it.

There’s a kind of silence that falls over the group—heavy, suspended in the air, the kind of quiet that only comes before something irreversible, something violent and sacred and necessary all at once—and you try to focus on their faces instead of the saw in Jake’s hand, on Jungwon’s eyes instead of the blowtorch Sunghoon is igniting in the corner, the hiss of flame catching and the low, anxious murmurs of the group as they brace themselves, not just physically but emotionally, for what this means.

You look down at your arm, really look at it—at the dirt under your fingernails, the faint scab from your tussle with A earlier, the way the bite has already begun to discolour the skin around it, bruised and swollen and festering. You’ve been bracing yourself for pain, for panic, for survival instincts to kick in and take over. But you didn’t expect... grief. And you realise how strange it is to mourn a part of yourself while it’s still attached, still warm, still undeniably yours.

Jungwon must’ve noticed the shift in your expression, the way your shoulders slumped and your eyes lingered a second too long on your soon-to-be missing limb, because he’s suddenly there beside you, silent and steady. He lowers himself to the ground with you, his presence anchoring, warm in the cold haze of panic tightening around your chest. His hand finds yours—tentative at first, then firmer, threading his fingers through yours with a kind of quiet desperation.

When you look at him, he’s already watching you, a faint smile curling at his lips. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes—those dark, storm-worn eyes—but he’s trying. He’s trying so hard to be strong for you. For the both of you.

And in that moment, you’re taken back to the rooftop, to the quiet under the stars and the weight of goodbye pressing on your shoulders like a second skin. To the kiss that felt more like a farewell than anything else. You’d kissed him thinking it would be the last time. Thinking that when you turned away, you’d never see him again.

Except now, he’s here.

He’s here, holding your hand like it’s the only thing tethering him to this reality. Like you’re the most precious thing in this godforsaken, broken world.

You can’t help but wonder—just for a second—how nice it would’ve been to meet Jungwon under different circumstances. In a world where survival didn’t come at the cost of your body, your sanity, your soul. Where the air didn’t reek of rot and the weight on his shoulders wasn’t made of lives and impossible decisions.

You imagine meeting him as just… people. Two strangers on a campus somewhere, maybe sitting across from each other in a crowded cafe, or bumping into each other at a library, both reaching for the same book. Maybe you’d catch him staring first, his eyes kind and curious instead of shadowed and burdened. Maybe he’d laugh more. Maybe you would, too.

Would it still have been the same? Would the connection have still been as profound, as undeniable, if it wasn’t born from shared trauma, sleepless nights, and the kind of loyalty forged only in fire and blood?

You wonder if he would’ve still looked at you like this—with that mix of fear and hope and something far too deep to name. If you weren’t on the verge of dying, and he wasn’t on the verge of shattering over the thought of losing you… would you still find your way to each other?

Maybe. Maybe not.

But in this cruel, twisted world, you did. And that has to mean something.

Jake’s voice breaks through your haze, quiet but firm. “Y/N,” he says, and when your eyes finally meet his, you’re startled by the fear swimming in them. Not for himself. For you. “Ready?”

It’s not a question you’ve ever been asked before—not like this. Not with everything hanging in the balance. He’s not asking if you’re sure. You’re past that point. He’s asking if you’re ready to survive.

Your lips part, and for a second, nothing comes out. You want to tell him no. That you’re scared. That this is insane.

Your mouth is dry. “Do it before I change my mind,” you whisper, and the words barely escape your lips, but Jake hears them. He meets your eyes and nods.

Jungwon’s grip tightens on your free hand, and you squeeze his back like a lifeline. You don’t dare look at him. You don’t want the last memory before the pain to be the look of fear in anyone else’s eyes—especially not his. So you stare straight ahead, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the darkened ceiling, trying to focus on the feeling of his thumb brushing small, grounding circles against your knuckles.

You count the breaths—one, two, three—trying to slow your racing heart, trying to keep from shaking. The air feels suffocating, thick with tension and antiseptic, the faint metallic tang of blood already lingering before it’s even spilled.

And then the saw comes down.

The first cut isn’t clean. It never is. You feel everything—every jagged grind of metal against bone, every shred of sinew snapping apart, every nerve ending lighting up like wildfire. Your back arches involuntarily, and a choked scream tears from your throat before you can bite it back. Your vision blurs at the edges. You taste copper. You hear someone—maybe yourself—whimpering through clenched teeth.

Jungwon’s face twists with every sound you make, like he’s taking on the pain himself, like he’d trade places with you in a heartbeat if he could.

Heeseung is holding your shoulder down now, murmuring something like “You’re okay, you’re okay, just a little more,” over and over again, but the words barely register past the blinding, searing pain clawing up your spine, blooming behind your eyes, threatening to black out your vision.

Jake’s hands are steady, but his jaw is clenched tight, his entire body trembling with effort and urgency as he pushes through. He’s breathing hard, sweat dripping from his brow as he works, and finally—finally—the saw breaks through the last layer of bone and your arm is no longer yours.

A ragged, guttural sound escapes you as your body collapses back against the floor, half-conscious, half-gone.

But it’s not over.

The smell hits you first—burning flesh, acrid and thick, clinging to the back of your throat like smoke. Then the heat follows, sharp and blinding. Sunghoon doesn’t speak as he presses the flat, glowing-red piece of metal—heated over the blowtorch until it shimmered with angry orange—against the raw stump of your arm. The pain that follows is worse than anything you’ve ever known.

You don’t even get the chance to brace yourself.

Your body arches violently, back lifting off the floor as the searing pain explodes through you. The sound that tears out of you is guttural, inhuman, a cry that fractures the air like glass shattering. You’re vaguely aware of hands holding you down—Jungwon’s voice calling your name, Jake’s arms pinning your torso, Sunoo’s weight across your legs—but all you can feel is the heat, the sting, the way your skin sizzles under the metal, as nerves are seared shut, as blood vessels are cauterised in a last-ditch attempt to keep you alive.

Somewhere beyond the white-hot agony, you feel Jungwon’s hand squeeze tighter, anchoring you to this reality, to the present, to the part of you still fighting. His hold is desperate, unrelenting, like he’s trying to pull you back from the edge just by touch alone.

“Almost there,” Jake’s voice grits out somewhere near your shoulder, but it’s distant, muffled—like everything else right now, dulled beneath the roar of pain.

You close your eyes and focus on the hand still in yours.

Not the missing part of you. Not the blood. Not the fear.

Just the hand. Just the fight. Just the hope that you’ll come out of this still human.

Still you.

When it’s over, the wound is blackened and raw, but closed. The bleeding has stopped. The infection hasn’t had a chance to spread—at least, that’s what Jake says—but all you can do is lie there, broken and heaving and soaked in sweat, your entire world reduced to pain and heat and the gentle pressure of Jungwon’s hand still clutching yours.

You blink up at the ceiling, trying to focus, trying to process, and you can feel the tears slipping from the corners of your eyes. You turn your head, eyes finding Jungwon again, and the look on his face—it’s not just relief. It’s awe. Like he’s seeing you for the first time. Like you’ve done something miraculous. And maybe you have.

Maybe choosing to live is the bravest, most impossible thing you’ve ever done.

Jungwon holds your gaze, and for a moment, just a moment, it’s like everything falls away—no groaning dead beyond the door, no blood, no rot, no pain. Just you and him. Breathing. Existing. Surviving.

And then, as if your body finally catches up to everything it’s just endured, the edges of your vision begin to blur again—this time not from pain, but from a bone-deep exhaustion that sinks into every inch of you like a slow, heavy tide. Your limbs feel weightless and leaden all at once, your head swimming, the sounds around you warping into something distant and echoing. You don’t fight it. You’ve fought enough. Your fingers, still curled around Jungwon’s, finally go slack as the blackness rushes in like a wave—and just before it swallows you whole, you let yourself believe, if only for a second, that maybe this time, you’ll wake up.

Alive.

“She’ll wake up”

“It’s been hours, Jake."

“I know I’m trying. Fuck. All I can do is increase her dosage, there’s nothing…”

“We should tie her up”

“No, don’t fucking touch her. She’ll make it.”

“Y/N, hey.”

The first thing you hear as you claw your way out of unconsciousness is Jungwon’s voice—soft, frayed around the edges, trembling like it’s been calling out for hours. You can’t see him yet, not with your eyes still refusing to open, but you can feel him. The warmth of his hand wrapped around yours again, grounding you. Holding on. Not letting go.

The world filters in slowly—muted voices, the shuffling of feet, the low groans of the dead from somewhere far off, beyond these walls. Pain registers next, dull and distant, like it’s been muted under layers of cotton and morphine. Your entire body feels foreign—heavy, stitched together, fraying at the seams.

“She’s awake,” someone whispers. You think it’s Jake. There’s a rustle of movement, the creak of a chair, the scrape of boots on concrete.

Your eyelids flutter, heavy as lead, and when they finally lift, it’s like breaching the surface of water after being submerged too long. The light from the lantern stings, blurry shapes looming into focus. The ceiling. The cracked paint. And then anchoring everything into place—

Jungwon.

His face is pale, his eyes bloodshot, but there’s relief pouring off of him like sunlight after a storm. “Hey,” he breathes again, like it’s a prayer.

You try to speak, but your throat is dry. Instead, your fingers twitch faintly in his grasp—and that’s enough. His breath hitches, and he brings your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles like it’s the only thing tethering him to the earth.

“You scared the shit out of us,” Heeseung murmurs from somewhere to the side, his voice quieter now. There’s a kind of reverence in it, a shaky pride. “But… you did it.”

It’s then that you look down—only to find the empty space where your arm used to be. And that’s when it hits you—a phantom sensation, sharp and cruel in its illusion. You feel your arm. Or at least, you think you do. The fingers that aren’t there twitch, curl, ache with a strange pins-and-needles pressure that makes your stomach churn.

You can feel them. You know they’re gone. And yet, your brain hasn't caught up, hasn’t let go. The absence is louder than the pain, more jarring than the wound itself. It’s like your body is mourning a part of you that still believes it exists.

And as if Jungwon can sense the storm building inside you, his hand moves. Gently, he reaches over and places it over your eyes, shielding you from the sight.

It’s a kind gesture, but it breaks you.

The tears slip out before you even feel them coming. Hot. Endless. You’re crying—not just from pain, but from grief, from fear, from the shattering weight of everything you’ve endured. You sob, trembling, breath catching in your throat like you’ve forgotten how to breathe.

Your instinct is to push his hand away, to cover your face with your own—but the arm you reach for doesn’t exist anymore.

The moment you realise that, it shatters what little composure you had left.

A sob wracks through your chest, harder, harsher. Jungwon doesn’t speak. He doesn’t let go. He holds your hand like a lifeline, brushing his thumb in slow, steady circles, whispering nothing and everything all at once.

When the worst of it passes and your sobs taper into shaky breaths, they give you a moment—just long enough to collect the scattered pieces of yourself, to gather whatever fragile control you still have left. And then, with gentle hands and quiet encouragement, they try to get you to sit up. Your body feels detached, heavy and weightless all at once, but somehow you manage to push yourself off the floor with your remaining arm, groaning softly as you prop yourself up against the cold, cracked wall. Every muscle protests, trembling under the strain, but you force yourself upright.

Jake is already on his way over, crouching in front of you with another dose of painkillers in hand, pressed into a makeshift paper cup filled with water. You don’t resist. You open your mouth, let the bitter tablet sit on your tongue, let the water burn its way down your throat. It tastes like metal. Like dust. But you swallow it anyway.

“You’re not completely in the clear yet,” Jake says quietly, not meeting your eyes. He’s trying to keep his voice neutral, but the edge of worry bleeds through. “We still don’t know if we managed to cut off the infection in time…”

He pauses, hesitates—and that’s when your gaze meets his. His expression shifts, the corners of his mouth tightening ever so slightly.

“…You could still turn. We just—” He stops, drags a hand down his face, and exhales hard, like he’s trying to breathe out all the things he doesn’t want to say. “We can only wait and see.”

The words settle into your chest like stones dropped into water—silent but heavy, rippling through your body with a slow, suffocating ache. That terrible uncertainty… it's back again. And it’s worse than death. Because at least death is final. But this—this is a slow, crawling unknown. You could still die. Or worse, lose yourself piece by piece, until the thing left breathing isn’t you anymore.

But you don’t flinch. You don’t argue or cry. You nod. Not because you’re hopeful, but because you’ve made your peace with it. You tried. You gave yourself a chance, and maybe that’s more than what most people in this world get. Maybe that alone is something to hold onto.

“I’m cold,” you murmur, turning your head toward Jungwon, who’s still crouched quietly beside you. His hand is wrapped gently around yours, grounding you like it always does. He looks up instantly, eyes full of concern.

“I’ll go grab you a blanket. Wait for me,” he says softly, as if any louder would shatter the fragile stillness of the room. He gives your fingers one last squeeze, then pushes himself up and walks toward the basement.

The second he disappears down the hall, you shift your gaze to Jay.

He’s already watching you.

You give him a small, barely-there nod. A silent summons.

Jay limps closer, his body stiff, his face unreadable—but his eyes say it all. He kneels beside you, wincing as his knee hits the floor, and leans in so he’s eye level with you. His breath is steady, but there’s something tight in the way he holds it, like he already knows what you’re about to say and he’s bracing for impact.

“Can I ask you a favour?” you say, your voice hoarse, barely audible over the sound of your own heartbeat. You feel raw. Hollowed out. Your body is in shambles, and your mind is hanging by a thread.

Jay doesn’t answer right away, but the subtle twitch in his jaw, the clenching of his fists at his sides—it’s enough to tell you he understands.

You look him dead in the eyes.

“Jay… if I turn, I want you to be the one to put me down.” Your throat tightens, and you barely manage to get the next words out. “Don’t let Jungwon do it. Please.”

His expression doesn’t change much—but his eyes do. They flicker with pain, anger, and something dangerously close to grief. You know what you’re asking. You know the kind of burden you're placing on him. But you also know he’s the only one who can carry it. Not Jungwon. Jungwon would never recover. Not from this. Not from you.

Jay’s silence stretches, heavy and unbearable, until he finally gives you a small, solemn nod.

And in that moment, you feel a strange kind of relief.

Not peace. Not comfort.

But certainty.

A mercy, promised.

The others shift uncomfortably at the exchange, their movements small and fidgety—eyes darting between you and Jay, shoulders stiffening, breaths held like the air itself has become too fragile to disturb. You can feel it—how your quiet acceptance, your calm resolve, unsettles them more than if you were screaming or panicking.

Because if you—the one who fought tooth and nail to live, who threw yourself into fire and fury without hesitation—have already come to terms with the possibility of dying, then what hope is left for the rest of them?

No one says it out loud, but the silence that follows is deafening. Heavy. Final. And for a split second, you wonder if it would’ve been easier for them to keep believing you’d make it. Easier to cling to the illusion that everything would be fine. But instead, here you are, calmly appointing your executioner—and they’re forced to imagine what it will look like if you don’t make it through the night.

You turn your head, eyes drifting toward the ground beside you, and your stomach twists at the sight of dried blood staining the concrete, smeared and congealed like rust. A few meters off to the corner, partially obscured by the shadows, you notice a thin cloth draped over something small and misshapen. You suspect it's whatever is left of your arm.

But before you get the chance to ask, Jungwon returns with a clean blanket, his footsteps hurried and almost frantic. He’s unfolding it as he approaches, his eyes darting over your form, checking, assessing, making sure you’re still here. Without a word, he drapes the blanket over you, his movements careful, almost reverent.

He slides down to sit beside you, his back pressed against the wall, elbows propped on his knees, eyes fixated on some point far away. The others take it as a cue to give you two some privacy, but in a room where every sound echoes off the cracked walls, nothing is truly private. You catch a glimpse of Heeseung pretending to wipe the hinges of a shelf and Ni-ki awkwardly pretending to help him, their attempts at subtlety so blatant it almost makes you laugh. Almost.

“How are you feeling?” Jungwon asks, his voice low, frayed around the edges.

“That’s a very difficult question to ask someone who just got their arm cut off.” You try for a joke, something to break the tension, to convince him you’re still yourself, that you haven’t changed just because a part of you is missing.

He flinches at your words, eyes flickering with something that looks suspiciously like pain. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice strained.

“Hey, don’t apologise. None of this is your fault.” You try to sound reassuring, but the weight of everything is pressing down on you like a boulder. “Actually… I should be thanking you. For… you know, saving my life. All of you.”

He nods, but his gaze remains fixed on the floor, his fingers clenching and unclenching against his knees. The silence stretches, and you realise he’s waiting for you to say more. Waiting for you to voice the thoughts clawing at the back of your mind. So you push through, forcing the words out before you lose your nerve.

“Look, I know this isn’t… ideal.” You glance down at the blanket wrapped around you, the empty space where your arm should be. “But I’m alive. And that’s something. That’s… more than I expected to get.”

Jungwon’s jaw tightens, his shoulders tensing. He’s trying to keep his expression neutral, but you can see the turmoil bubbling beneath the surface. “You shouldn’t have expected anything less,” he mutters, his voice thick with frustration. “You shouldn’t have—” He cuts himself off, exhaling sharply, his hands raking through his hair. “We’re supposed to look out for each other. You… you shouldn’t have gone off on your own like that.”

“I know.” The admission comes out smaller than you intend. “I was reckless. And I’m sorry for making you all worry. I just… I couldn’t let A get away. Not after everything. I thought… if I could take him down, maybe everything would be okay. Maybe you’d all be safe.”

“We weren’t safe. Not with you out there risking everything by yourself.” His tone is clipped, tight, the anger barely contained. “You could’ve died. You almost did.”

“But I didn’t.” You insist, your voice wavering. “I’m still here.”

“Barely.” His retort is sharp, cutting through the air like a knife.

You swallow, your gaze dropping to the ground. “I made a mistake. I know that. But I’m still alive. I’m still here, Jungwon. And I’m grateful for that. I’m grateful to all of you.”

The words sound hollow even to your own ears, but you cling to them anyway, desperate to make him understand. Desperate to make him see that you’re not giving up, that you’re still fighting.

Jungwon’s expression softens just a fraction, but there’s something else there now, something raw and unguarded that makes your chest tighten. “You say that like it’s enough,” he whispers. “Like being alive is all that matters.”

“What else is there?” you ask, genuinely confused. “What else could possibly matter more than that?”

He stares at you, his eyes dark and searching, his breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts. And then he says it.

“It’s not—” His voice cracks over the words, like he’s tearing something out of himself just to say them. “It’s not okay.”

The air between you shifts, thickens. And you can see it now, the way his shoulders tremble, the way his fists clench and unclench at his sides. The way he’s fighting so hard to keep himself together, even as everything inside him threatens to break.

He won’t let himself be angry with you, not fully. So he’s turning it inward, letting it eat away at him from the inside out. And that realisation hits you harder than anything else.

“It is.” You meet his gaze, and something inside of you twists at the sheer desperation in his expression.

“No, it’s not!” His voice rises, cracking under the weight of everything he’s been holding in. “This isn’t okay! How—how can you sit there and say that like it’s fine?! Like you’re fine?!”

You stare at him, words caught in your throat. How do you explain that you’ve already accepted this? That you’ve resigned yourself to whatever happens next because you refuse to let it be for nothing? That you’re not afraid, not of this, not anymore. But the truth is tangled up with too many things you can’t say, too many emotions you can’t unravel, and before you can find the words, something shifts in Jungwon’s expression.

His breath shudders, his hands trembling slightly as they reach for you. The motion is quick, almost frantic. He grips your face between his hands, fingers pressing into your cheeks, his forehead knocking against yours with a force that feels almost desperate. His breath is warm, uneven, breaking against your skin like waves crashing against a shore.

“You don’t get to say that.” His voice is a ragged whisper, but it’s laced with a fury that you’ve never heard from him before. “You don’t get to tell me it’s okay. Because it’s not.”

You don’t move. You can’t. Jungwon is struggling to hold it together. You can feel it in the way his shoulders tremble with the force of his emotions, his grip too tight, like he’s trying to anchor you to him, to keep you from slipping away.

Slowly, carefully, you reach up with your remaining hand and place it over his, feeling the tension in his fingers, the desperation in his touch. You squeeze gently. “Jungwon.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just keeps staring at you like he’s trying to burn your image into his memory.

“You’re right,” you admit, your voice barely a whisper. “It’s not okay. I was foolish. I shouldn’t have gone off like that. I should’ve… I should’ve listened. I should’ve trusted you. I’m sorry.”

“No.” His response is immediate, almost desperate. His eyes widen, raw and searching, the pain in them so evident it makes your chest ache. “No, no, no. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have taken my frustrations out on you. You were doing what you thought was right. And I— I wasn’t there. I couldn’t protect you.”

You shake your head, the motion weak and unsteady. “You can’t protect me from everything. That’s not fair to you, and it’s not fair to me.”

He swallows hard, his gaze dropping to where his fingers twist together like he’s trying to wring the guilt out of his own bones. “Still… I should’ve been there for you. I should’ve kept you safe. And I didn’t. I’m sorry.” His voice is barely above a whisper now, breaking with each word like a confession he’s been holding back for too long.

For a moment, the two of you sit there in silence, breathing through the cracks and the grief and the terrible, crushing relief of still being here. Still being alive. You can feel his presence beside you, solid and real, his warmth bleeding into the coldness that has settled over your skin.

Then, slowly, Jungwon shifts closer, his hand reaching for yours, his fingers lacing through yours with a tenderness that nearly undoes you. His touch is cautious, like he’s afraid you might break under the weight of it.

He leans in, closing the gap between you, pressing his lips to yours so gently it feels like he’s trying to kiss away the pain, to erase the hurt he thinks he caused. His lips are warm, soft, trembling against yours like a prayer left unfinished.

His lips linger against yours, fragile and uncertain, like he’s trying to imprint this moment into something permanent—something real. You can feel the tremor in his touch, the hesitation tangled with desperation. It’s like he’s terrified you’ll disappear the second he pulls away. And maybe you are too.

Your eyes slip shut, drowning out everything but the warmth of his mouth against yours, the press of his forehead resting gently against yours. His breath mingles with yours, uneven and shallow, like he’s afraid that breathing too deeply might shatter whatever delicate thread is keeping you here, with him.

You feel the press of his fingers squeezing yours, a little too tight, as if he’s trying to anchor you to him. Like he thinks if he holds on tight enough, the universe won’t be able to rip you away. The heat of his palm against yours sends a shiver through you, a grounding touch in the midst of all this madness.

When he finally pulls back, his eyes are bloodshot, his cheeks damp. You don’t even know when he started crying. He must not have realised it either because he looks at you like you’re the one who’s breaking, like you’re the one who needs saving.

His thumb swipes clumsily over your cheek, catching tears you didn’t know were there. You’re crying, too. You’re both crying. Everything feels raw and exposed, stripped down to nothing but bruised nerves and shattered breaths.

“I’m so scared of losing you.” His voice is cracked, splintered with something vulnerable and jagged. “I tried so hard to protect you, to keep you safe… but I couldn’t. And I keep thinking… what if it’s not enough? What if I’m not enough?”

The words pour out of him like a wound ripped open, all his fears and failures spilling into the air between you. And it’s painful to hear, to see him like this—so torn apart, so desperate to make things right when all you’ve ever wanted was for him to simply be there.

“It was never about being enough,” you murmur, your voice trembling, your chest tight. “You’ve always been enough, Jungwon. Always. It’s me who kept pushing you away, who kept trying to do everything alone because I was too scared to let you in. Too scared that if I needed you… and you were gone… it would break me.”

His breath stutters, eyes widening like your words just cut him down the middle. You can feel the way his shoulders slump, like he’s crumbling under the weight of something neither of you can control.

“I was reckless,” you continue, forcing the words out even as your throat tightens. “I was so focused on trying to protect all of you that I didn’t even think about what it would do to you if I…” Your voice cracks, and you have to swallow hard before you can continue. “If I didn’t come back.”

A pained noise escapes him, something between a sob and a gasp. His fingers tighten around yours, knuckles white with the force of his grip. “Don’t say that. Don’t—don’t even think like that. You came back. You’re here. You’re—”

He breaks off, his voice cracking, his eyes glassy with unshed tears. You can see the way he’s struggling to keep himself together, to hold back the tide of emotions threatening to consume him. And it’s almost too much—to see him like this, to know that your recklessness has left him so utterly broken.

“I know,” you whisper, the words trembling on your lips. “I’m here. I’m still here.”

But you don’t say the rest. You don’t tell him that you don’t know if you’ll stay. You don’t tell him that the infection might already be spreading through your veins, that this might all be borrowed time. You can’t. Not when he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

Instead, you reach up and brush your fingers against his cheek, wiping away the tears still clinging to his skin. His eyes flutter shut at the contact, his shoulders sagging as if your touch alone is enough to loosen the knots of tension twisted through his body.

You stay like that for a moment, your hand cradling his face, his breath trembling against your palm. It’s a fragile, fleeting moment—one that could break apart at any second. But for now, it’s enough.

You let out a shaky breath and pull your hand away, your fingers feeling cold in the absence of his warmth. Jungwon’s eyes open, and the pain there is still raw and bleeding, but there’s something else too. Something like determination.

“I can’t lose you,” he whispers, his voice fractured but laced with a desperate resolve, like he’s trying to will those words into reality.

“You won’t,” you manage to choke out, your voice trembling but certain. You’re not sure if you believe it yourself, but it doesn’t feel like a lie. Even if the worst happens—even if your body gives out—you know a part of you will always be with him. You’ll never truly leave him, not in the ways that matter.

A chill snakes down your spine, settling into your bones despite the blanket wrapped tightly around your body. Your teeth chatter involuntarily, the shivers wracking through you in waves. You must look like death itself, but you can’t bring yourself to care. Everything feels too heavy, too sharp. The world pressing down on you in all the wrong ways.

Without a word, Sunoo carefully slips a few instant heating packs from the MREs under your blanket. The warmth seeps through gradually, cutting through the chill. You offer him a weak smile, your gratitude clear even if you don’t have the strength to voice it. He nods back, his eyes clouded with worry.

“Jungwon.” Your voice is thin, trembling, but it’s enough to draw his attention.

“Hm?” He shifts closer instinctively, his body turning to face you, eyes locked onto yours with unwavering focus.

You lean into him, resting your head against his shoulder. It’s a familiar gesture, one that feels safe and steady even in the midst of everything else falling apart. He adjusts his position immediately, angling himself so you can settle against him comfortably. You feel his arm circle around your back, his touch gentle, protective.

“I’m sleepy,” you murmur, the words slurring slightly. “Will you sing me to sleep?”

His shoulders tense, and for a moment, he’s utterly still. You can hear the faint hitch in his breath, see the hesitation flicker in his eyes. There’s a long, heavy silence stretching between you. The only other sounds are the distant groans of the dead outside, the scrape of their feet against the ground.

You think you’ve asked for too much. That he’ll refuse. That he can’t find his voice when he’s barely holding himself together. But then—

He sings. And everything else—pain, fear, doubt—fades into a dull hum as his voice wraps around you like a cocoon. His singing is soft, unsteady at first, like he’s not sure if he’s doing it right, but then it smooths out, the melody gentle and haunting.

I remember tears streaming down your face When I said, “I’ll never let you go” When all those shadows almost killed your light

His voice is soft, barely more than a whisper, but it reaches you with startling clarity. It’s raw, tender, stripped down, like it’s not just a song but a plea. A promise he’s trying to etch into your bones, to keep you grounded, to keep you here. And you cling to it. To him.

You can’t explain it—how his voice feels like fresh wildflowers blooming in the dead of winter, a warmth that cuts through the chill of the night. It’s soothing, cradling you in something that feels almost like peace.

I remember you said "Don't leave me here alone" But all that's dead and gone and passed Tonight

The others are quiet, their movements stilled. The faint glow of the lantern casts shadows across their faces, but you can still see the exhaustion etched into every line, the battles they’re fighting within their own minds. Even they seem to draw some measure of comfort from the sound of Jungwon’s voice.

Just close your eyes The sun is going down You’ll be alright No one can hurt you now

The vibration of his chest against your cheek is a steady, grounding rhythm. And as he sings, your eyelids grow heavier, your breathing slows, your body sinking further into his warmth. You let yourself drift, let his voice carry you somewhere else, somewhere safe.

You imagine the two of you sitting on the rooftop, legs dangling over the edge, the air cool but not cold. Your head rests on his shoulder, just like this. The sky is painted in hues of orange and pink, the sun setting gently over the camp. The dead are distant, irrelevant, nothing more than shadows on the periphery of a world that doesn’t matter.

Come morning light, You and I’ll be safe and sound.

As his voice drifts off, the last note hanging in the air like a whisper, you feel your breathing begin to even out. The pain is still there, lurking beneath the surface, but it’s dulled now, muffled by the warmth of his presence, by the lull of his singing.

“Thank you,” you mumble, your voice barely a thread of sound.

Jungwon’s fingers brush against yours, his touch delicate, careful. “Anything for you,” he whispers, the words thick and heavy with emotion.

And with that, you let yourself drift, surrendering to the dark, knowing that if you wake up—if you get through this—he’ll be right there, holding you just as tightly in his arms. Where you’ll hopefully feel safe and sound.

It’s a strange, surreal feeling. Dying. Or maybe not dying. Not yet, at least. You’re not sure where you stand on that precipice between life and death, but it feels like you’re hovering somewhere in between, suspended in a place where time stretches and folds in on itself.

You know you’re unconscious. You can’t move, can’t speak, can’t even open your eyes. But your awareness is still there, fragmented and hazy but present. You can feel things. Not clearly, but enough to know you haven’t crossed over to whatever’s waiting on the other side.

You feel the sensation of being lifted, your body handled with a gentleness that almost surprises you. Strong arms beneath you, cradling you with a care so profound it leaves an ache in your chest. You feel warmth when it comes, washing over you in brief, fleeting waves that seep into your skin like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

Fingers brush over your face, cool and steady, tracing patterns against your feverish skin. You can’t tell who it is, but you can feel the touch, the way it lingers like an unspoken promise. Other hands move along your body—cleaning the grime and blood from your skin, changing the bandage on your arm with delicate precision. You feel the sharp sting of antiseptic, the pressure of gauze being secured, the subtle shifts of weight as someone tends to you, over and over again.

You want to thank them. To open your eyes and tell them that you feel their presence, that you know they’re trying. But the words are trapped somewhere deep inside of you, tangled and unreachable. Your lips refuse to move. Your throat remains closed off, like it’s forgotten how to form even the simplest syllables.

Is this what coma patients go through? Is this what it feels like to be stuck in your own body, powerless and mute, even as the world continues to turn around you?

You hear voices sometimes. They drift in and out, muffled and distorted like they’re coming from underwater. They’re talking to you, you think. But the words blur together, bleeding into a tangle of incoherent sound. You try to grasp at them, try to pull meaning from the noise, but it slips through your fingers like smoke.

There’s something else, too. A presence that lingers longer than the others. Someone who speaks to you more than the rest. The tone is familiar, threaded with desperation and something else you can’t quite name. Grief. Fear. Hope. Maybe all of them, maybe none. But it’s there, always there, like a thread tied around your heart, tugging you back toward the surface.

You don’t know how much time has passed. Hours. Days. Weeks. It all bleeds together in the darkness, in the endless nothingness that presses against your consciousness. You’re starting to get tired, when will this end?

The voices filter through the darkness, warped and distant, like they’re coming from the other end of a tunnel. But they’re clearer than before, threaded with urgency and something raw—grief, maybe, or desperation. Your mind clings to the sound, pulling the words apart, trying to make sense of them even as the fog threatens to drag you under again.

“You need to stop going off on your own. It’s not helping and it’s not going to do anything. They’re already gone.” The voice is steady, calm, but there’s a firmness to it, a caution wrapped in concern. You can’t place it, but something about it feels familiar.

“What if they come back?” The second voice is shaky, strained with the kind of fear that doesn’t fade with reassurance.

“They won’t,” the first voice insists, its tone flat, resolute. But even you can hear the way the certainty falters, just barely, like the speaker is trying to convince himself as much as anyone else.

“What makes you so sure?” The desperation bleeds through, palpable and sharp. “What if they come back and someone else gets hurt? I can’t risk anyone else getting hurt. I’m already as fucked up as it is with Y/N. Her condition isn’t even improving and I fear what we forced her to endure only extended her suffering.” The voice cracks, and your chest tightens, a phantom ache curling around your ribs. You know that voice. You know the pain threading through it.

“Heeseung, did we make the right choice? Please tell me we made the right choice, fuck I—”

“Calm down.” Heeseung’s voice now, low and controlled, trying to slice through the panic. “No one else is getting hurt. A is dead. They won’t come back. You made sure of that, remember?”

A silence stretches out, heavy and oppressive. You can practically feel the weight of it pressing down on you, thickening the air until it feels like you’re drowning.

But Heeseung’s words echo in your mind. A is dead. They won’t come back. He made sure of that.

And there’s only one person he could be speaking to. Only one person who would tear himself apart over your suffering, who would unravel so completely under the weight of guilt and fear and desperate, clinging hope.

Jungwon.

Your heart clenches, but your body remains unresponsive, your mind drifting in and out of coherence. You try to reach for him, to push through the darkness, to let him know you can hear him. That you’re still here. But all you manage is a twitch of your fingers, a slight movement so small it’s swallowed by the void before anyone even notices.

But you keep trying. Because if Jungwon’s out there, tearing himself apart, then you have to find a way back. For him. For all of them.

The sudden ache that slices through your skull feels like someone drove a knife into your temple and twisted. It jolts you awake, your eyes snapping open with a sharp intake of breath. The sensation is violent, like you’ve been ripped from the clutches of a nightmare, thrust into consciousness without warning.

For a moment, everything is too bright, too harsh. The sunlight streams through the cracked blinds of the convenience store window, painting jagged patterns across the floor.

It’s warm, too warm, and it settles over your skin like a phantom touch—too real and not real enough all at once.

Instinctively, you try to raise your hand to shield your eyes, but your wrist jerks against something cold and unyielding. Bound. To a pipe. The realisation snaps you back to the present, and frustration coils hot and sharp in your chest as you struggle against the restraints. Your fingers twitch, but then the brutal, crushing reality slams into you—you only have one hand now.

You swallow down the bitterness clawing at your throat, the taste of defeat and something sour that you can’t quite name. Great. Just great.

Your throat is dry, sandpaper against itself, and when you try to call out, your voice splinters into nothing. Just a rasp of air, useless and cracked from disuse. The more you try, the worse it gets.

Panic wells up inside of you, desperate and clinging, but before it can take root, you catch the faintest sound of voices approaching. Familiar voices.

“I’ll be right there, just need to change into some clean clothes.” The voice is clear, casual, almost too normal for the chaos your body feels trapped in. Jay. His tone is light, but there’s a strain to it.

You hear the creak of the convenience store door being pushed open, and you catch a glimpse of him stepping through, but his eyes are trained somewhere else, attention diverted.

You can’t speak, can’t call out, so you do the only thing you can think of. You kick your leg against the floor, the dull thud echoing through the silence.

Jay’s head snaps toward you, his eyes widening, and his gun is raised before you even register the movement. The wariness in his gaze is immediate, sharp, but then recognition washes over him, relief crashing through his expression like a tidal wave.

“Oh my God, you’re awake.” His voice is breathless, disbelieving, and he practically trips over himself as he rushes to your side, dropping to his knees beside you. His hands fumble with the knot binding your wrist to the pipe, fingers trembling slightly, but he manages to free you, his grip gentle as he helps you sit up.

Your body feels wrong, hollowed out and strung together with threadbare strings, but you force yourself to lean against him, letting him take some of your weight as you shakily lift yourself off the ground. The muscles in your shoulders protest the movement, sore and strained, but you grit your teeth and push through it.

“Here, have some water.” Jay uncaps a bottle with one hand, his other arm still supporting you. He brings it to your lips, helping you take a few sips. The cool liquid hits your throat and you almost choke on it, coughing weakly, but you manage to swallow enough to soothe the dryness.

“Easy. Slow down,” he murmurs, concern etched into every line of his face. His eyes are searching yours, frantic and careful all at once, like he’s waiting for you to shatter before his very eyes. “Fuck, Y/N, we thought—”

He cuts himself off, voice cracking on the last word, and you feel the weight of it, the heaviness of everything he isn’t saying.

“Jay, how long was I out for?” You manage to rasp out, the words scraping against your throat like broken glass. Even forming a sentence feels like an insurmountable effort, your vocal cords strained and unused.

Jay’s eyes flit over your face, searching, as if trying to make sense of how you’re even speaking. His shoulders sag with a mixture of relief and something else—something darker, like guilt.

“Two weeks.” His voice is steady, but his eyes betray him. There’s a tightness to them, a rawness that makes your stomach twist. “You were out for two weeks.”

Two weeks. The words hit you like a punch to the chest.

Your mind reels, trying to grasp the reality of it. Two weeks lost to nothingness. Two weeks of hovering between life and death, of your body fighting a war you weren’t even conscious to endure. No wonder everything feels wrong—your muscles are stiff and unresponsive, your throat parched, your head pounding like it’s been split open and stitched back together with jagged threads.

Two weeks of them waiting. Of them not knowing if you’d wake up again. Of Jungwon—

“Where’s Jungwon?” The question tumbles out before you can stop it, the desperation in your voice painfully clear.

Jay’s eyes flicker with something unreadable, his mouth pressing into a thin line before he answers. “He’s… he’s out on patrol. He needed some air.” The hesitation in his voice is enough to set off every alarm in your mind.

“Air?” You echo, eyebrows knitting together. “For two weeks?”

“No. Not the whole time.” Jay shifts uncomfortably, his gaze drifting away from you. “He’s been here. By your side. Every damn day, refusing to sleep, refusing to eat properly. It’s a miracle he didn’t pass out himself.” He lets out a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair. “He was starting to lose it, Y/N.”

A pang of guilt twists in your gut, the knowledge of what Jungwon must have gone through sinking in like a knife. You picture him, sitting beside you, day after day, waiting for you to wake up, clinging to whatever scraps of hope he could find.

“And the others?” You ask, the words spilling out before you can overthink them.

“They’ve been taking shifts watching over you,” Jay admits. “Making sure you were warm enough, making sure the wound didn’t get infected. Jake’s been changing the bandages every day. Heeseung’s been… holding everyone together. And the rest of us are trying to… rebuild.”

You blink, your vision blurring slightly as you process his words. They’d all been here. All of them. Holding the pieces together while you lay useless, unconscious.

“Why was I tied up?” Your gaze drifts to the pipe your wrist was bound to, a slight indentation visible on your skin.

Jay’s expression darkens, guilt flashing across his features. “Protocol. Just… just in case you turned. We couldn’t risk… we couldn’t risk you waking up and—” His voice cracks, the words caught somewhere between apology and regret.

“It’s fine,” you interrupt, your voice a little stronger now. “I get it.” And you do. They were trying to protect themselves. From you. From the possibility of you being something other than yourself when you woke up.

“Wait here, I’ll go get the others.” Jay stumbles to his feet, his movements awkward, his gaze flickering away from you like he’s hiding something. His attempt at nonchalance is laughable, the tension in his shoulders giving him away. You can’t shake the feeling that there’s more he’s not telling you, but before you can question him, he’s already pushing through the door.

Moments later, the sound of hurried footsteps echoes through the store, followed by a voice so loud it nearly startles you.

“Y/N!” Sunoo barrels through the doors like a man possessed, clutching a bowl of soup so tightly you’re amazed it hasn’t spilled all over the floor. His eyes are wide, his expression straddling the line between joy and disbelief. The others spill in behind him, their faces painted with the same frantic relief, like they need to see you conscious with their own eyes to believe it.

“Thank fucking God, you’re alive.” Heeseung releases a shuddering breath, his shoulders sagging as he settles down beside you, his hand finding your shoulder as if he needs to touch you to be sure you’re real.

Jake practically beams, his grin wide and unrestrained as he kneels beside you, his eyes locked on your arm—or what’s left of it. He’s examining the stump like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, pride practically radiating off him.

It’s clear he’s been obsessively monitoring your condition, and you owe him your life for it.

Sunoo inches closer, carefully holding out the bowl of soup, his hands trembling slightly. “Here. Try to drink a little. It’s not much, but…” His voice wavers, but his determination is solid. You allow him to help you take a few sips, the warmth sliding down your throat like liquid gold.

“How are you feeling?” Sunghoon’s voice chimes in from the side, his expression cautious but hopeful.

You try to force a weak smile. “I’ve been better. My body feels like it’s not even mine.”

“It’s normal,” Jake says, his hand finding your forehead, his touch gentle and cool. “You were out for two weeks, after all.” He nods, satisfied. “Your fever’s gone down, though. That’s a good sign.”

“Hell, you actually survived a zombie bite.” Ni-ki huffs, his arms crossed over his chest, his smirk almost impressed. “That’s… wild.”

“Yay, lucky me.” The sarcasm comes out dry, but the familiar edge of humour sends a ripple of relief through the group. As if hearing you joke, no matter how weakly, means you’re still you.

For a moment, the room feels lighter, their laughter filling the air like a breath of fresh air after weeks of suffocating tension. But it doesn’t last. Because the question that’s been gnawing at you since you woke up hasn’t been answered.

“What happened?” you ask, your voice tight. “Where did the horde go?”

The shift in their demeanour is instant. Bodies tense, glances exchanged, words swallowed. There’s a heaviness to their silence, a hesitation that makes your stomach twist.

“Guys… where’s Jungwon?” The panic slips into your tone before you can reel it back. “Don’t tell me he’s—”

“God, no. He’s fine.” Jake rushes to reassure you, but his expression is strained, like the truth is something jagged he’s struggling to hold.

“After you passed out…” Heeseung begins, his voice low and careful. “I guess his emotions sort of overwhelmed him. He—he wanted every one of the dead to be gone. Every last one. It was like he couldn’t stand the idea of them being near you.”

“He went out on his own,” Heeseung continues, his eyes darkening with something that feels like guilt. “He wanted to open the gate to draw them away, but… it was already open. Whatever remained of A’s people, they fled. Jungwon spent the next two days leading the horde away from here. And he wouldn’t let any of us help him.”

“Two days,” you echo, your heart sinking. Jungwon’s name leaves your lips like a prayer, like a plea.

“He’s been hunting the rest of A’s people after that, the ones who managed to escape.” Sunoo’s voice cracks slightly. “He’d come back late, just to check on you. He’d sit beside you, take short naps, then leave again.”

“He’s not… he’s not himself,” Heeseung admits, his gaze shifting to the floor. “He’s blaming himself for what happened. And now… he’s tearing himself apart trying to fix it.”

The revelation settles over you like a cold, heavy weight. You can feel the tension in their faces, the worry etched into their expressions as they recount what happened. Jungwon, running himself ragged. Jungwon, fighting alone. Jungwon, refusing help and throwing himself at danger over and over again.

Sounds awfully like someone you know.

You look around the room, catching the strained expressions on everyone’s faces. They’ve all been watching this unfold, powerless to stop him, just as they were powerless to help you when you were dying. The guilt must be eating them alive.

“He’s still out there?” you ask, your voice coming out smaller than you intend.

Heeseung nods, his shoulders slumping. “He’s… he’s been relentless. He comes back just to make sure you’re breathing, to make sure you’re… still here. But he doesn’t stay. Not for long.”

“Where is he now?” Your stomach twists painfully, a combination of hunger, exhaustion, and something far worse—fear.

“We haven’t seen him since yesterday,” Jay admits, his voice trembling. “He said he was tracking some of A’s people. Trying to make sure none of them come back.”

“He’s going to get himself killed,” you whisper, horrified. “Why didn’t any of you stop him?”

“We tried,” Jay interjects, his tone defensive but layered with shame. “He wouldn’t listen. Just… shut us out. Every time we tried to help, he pushed us away. Like he’s punishing himself or something.”

“That sounds like him,” you murmur, your heart sinking. You feel the weight of it now, the sheer magnitude of what Jungwon’s been doing. What he’s been putting himself through because of you. Because of his failure to protect you.

You want to get up. You want to run out there and drag him back yourself, force him to see reason, to stop tearing himself apart. But your body is still weak, your muscles still shaky from the long sleep, your mind still foggy with fever and painkillers.

“Where did he go last?” you ask, fighting to keep your voice steady.

“We don’t know,” Ni-ki admits, eyes dropping to the floor. “He’s not exactly good at giving details before he storms off.”

“But he’ll be back,” Sunghoon adds, though even he sounds unsure. “He always comes back to check on you.”

You stare at the door, the silence stretching out, the air thick with unspoken fears. Jungwon is out there. Alone. Hunting ghosts and chasing vengeance. And the worst part? He’s doing it for you.

You insisted they bring you outside the convenience store, claiming you needed fresh air—something clean, something that didn’t reek of blood and antiseptic. But the truth is, you were slowly losing your mind cooped up inside that building, the walls pressing in closer every hour, the air growing stale and heavy.

It wasn’t just the confinement—it was the not knowing. The isolation. The feeling of being cut off from everything happening beyond the convenience store doors.

You could hear the faint, muffled sounds of activity outside, the occasional barked order, the dragging of something across the pavement. But no one would tell you what was happening, not really. And you couldn’t stand the uncertainty.

The thought of being kept in the dark while the others were out there, exposed, dealing with the aftermath of everything that had happened.

So you’d demanded to be brought outside, your voice sharp and unyielding until they relented. They’d been hesitant, their concern clear in the way their eyes darted between you and each other, like they weren’t sure if moving you would make things worse. But you’d been relentless, and eventually, they caved.

Now, as Sunoo carefully lowers you into one of those old, rickety wheeled chairs they’d scavenged from behind the counter, you feel the cool air prickling against your skin, the sunlight filtering through the clouds like a balm. It’s not clean air by any means—still thick with the cloying scent of blood and decay—but it’s different. It’s real. It’s enough to keep the madness at bay.

And yet, as the wheels creak and groan beneath you, and Sunoo pushes you further into the open air, you realise that knowing what’s happening isn’t always a relief.

Because the aftermath of the battle stretches out before you like a twisted, grotesque canvas—blood smeared across the concrete, darkened and congealed where the sun has begun to bake it into the ground.

But worse than that is the silence. The absence of groans and snarls from the dead. It’s all been replaced by the laboured breathing and strained grunts of your friends as they work. And that’s when you realise. Even though you wanted to know what was happening, even though you’d fought to be brought outside—it doesn’t make it any easier to face.

The others are working with grim efficiency, their movements mechanical, burdened with exhaustion but fuelled by necessity. They’re piling the bodies into the back of the van. Blood smears the metal doors and the ground beneath it, dark and sticky where it pools in shallow depressions.

Sunghoon and Ni-ki are doing most of the heavy lifting, their shoulders hunched, jaws clenched as they haul corpses over their backs and dump them into the van. The thud of lifeless weight against metal sends a shiver down your spine.

You catch glimpses of A’s people among the carnage—bodies twisted and torn, their limbs splayed at unnatural angles, eyes lifeless and empty. The horde had done its work well, the evidence strewn across the earth like discarded remains of a nightmare.

You try not to look too closely at their faces but it’s impossible not to see them. A’s people. The horde. Everything blurred together in death, no distinction left between monster and man.

“They’re going to burn them,” Sunoo says, voice low and weary as he pushes you closer to the van. “We didn't know what to do with them. But they started smelling real bad so Heeseung suggested to…yeah.” His tone is flat, resigned, like he’s already distanced himself from the horror of it all.

You swallow thickly, the air tasting of gasoline and decay. Your gaze locks onto the pile of bodies—they are stacked like firewood, limbs twisted and broken, some barely held together by the flesh that remains. It’s a horrifying sight, but somehow you can’t tear your eyes away.

“Guess it’s better this way.” Your voice is a hoarse rasp, the words scraping against your throat. “No more traces. No more reminders.”

Sunoo’s expression flickers, his gaze sharpening as he looks down at you. “Nothing’s ever gone for good,” he murmurs. “We just… pretend it is.”

The heaviness in his words cuts through you, a bleak truth that settles like lead in your chest. Pretending. Isn’t that what you’ve all been doing? Pretending you’re safe. Pretending you’re strong enough. Pretending you’re not terrified of what comes next.

And as you watch them load another body into the van—this one smaller, thinner, a girl who couldn’t have been much older than you were when the world went to hell—you realise Sunoo is right. The bodies might be gone. The blood might be washed away. But nothing is ever truly gone.

You’re all just pretending.

The minutes blur into hours, a cruel, dragging passage of time where every creak of the door, every shuffle of footsteps sends your heart plummeting and soaring in equal measure. The others try to distract you—Sunoo attempts to feed you more soup, Jake checks your temperature again, Ni-ki keeps making offhand comments to lighten the mood. But nothing cuts through the anxiety clinging to your chest. Nothing numbs the gnawing ache of Jungwon’s absence.

He’s been gone too long.

You force yourself to stay awake, eyes fixed on the door like if you look away for even a moment, he’ll slip past and disappear for good. You hate the way your body feels so fragile, like you could shatter if you so much as breathe wrong. You hate that you can’t be out there with him, helping him, keeping him safe. Instead, you’re stuck here—waiting, helpless, counting the seconds as they bleed into one another.

Evening stretches into dusk, the world outside dimming as the sun begins its slow descent. Shadows creep along the walls, the air growing colder, the faint groans of the undead in the distance a grim reminder of the horrors beyond the barricade.

He’ll come back, you tell yourself, over and over again. He has to. He always comes back.

But as the hours continue to slip away, doubt begins to coil around your heart, icy and relentless.

Heeseung is the first to suggest you get some rest, his voice gentle but firm as he tries to coax you away from the door. But you refuse. You can’t sleep. You can’t even sit still.

You try to imagine what Jungwon must be going through, the battles he’s been fighting—both with the dead and with himself. And it hurts. Because he shouldn’t be out there, tearing himself apart for you. Not for something that was your own fault to begin with.

The sun has almost fully dipped beneath the horizon when you hear it—the sound of the gate creaking open.

Your breath catches, and for a moment, you think you’ve imagined it. But then the others are stirring, their heads snapping toward the door, their eyes wide and hopeful.

You push yourself to your feet, the world tilting slightly as your legs tremble beneath you. The dizziness is immediate, but you force yourself forward, stumbling toward the door just as it swings open.

He’s there.

Jungwon stands in the fading light, his silhouette ragged and hunched, blood splattered across his clothes and dirt smeared across his face. His eyes are wild, haunted—like he’s been to hell and back and barely clawed his way free.

The moment his gaze lands on you, something inside him shatters. His shoulders sag, his knees nearly buckling. But he doesn’t hesitate. He crosses the distance between you in seconds, his arms encircling you, pulling you into him with a force so desperate it nearly knocks the breath from your lungs.

“Y/N.” His voice breaks over your name, the syllables raw and cracked. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his entire body trembling as if he’s holding back a flood of emotions he can’t even begin to contain.

You feel his tears against your skin, hot and unrelenting. His grip on you is almost painful, fingers digging into your back like if he lets go, you’ll vanish right before his eyes.

“You’re okay,” he chokes out, the words tumbling from his lips in a frantic rush. “You’re okay. You’re awake. I—God, I thought—” His voice breaks completely, his breath hitching as a sob tears its way through him. “I thought you’d never wake up.”

You cling to him just as fiercely, your arm wrapped around him as tightly as you can manage. “I’m here,” you whisper, your own voice thick with emotion. “I’m okay.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his gaze sweeping over your face like he’s trying to memorise every detail, every line, every scar. His eyes are red-rimmed, swollen, his expression so broken it nearly crushes you.

“I’m sorry,” he rasps, his fingers trembling as they trace the line of your jaw, his touch feather-light, as if he’s afraid you’ll break under his hands. “I should’ve been here when you woke up. I should’ve—”

“No,” you cut him off, shaking your head. “You did what you had to do. You kept them safe. You kept me safe.”

His shoulders quake with the force of his sobs, his forehead dropping against yours as he struggles to catch his breath. “I thought I lost you,” he whispers. “I thought I’d lost you forever.”

“I’m here, Jungwon. I’m alive. I’m alive.” Your voice cracks, splintering like glass under too much pressure. And somehow, saying it out loud makes it feel real. Like the words themselves are anchoring you to the present, tethering you to something solid and true. You’re alive. The truth of it thrums beneath your skin, a steady beat you’d almost forgotten how to hear.

Jungwon’s eyes widen, his breath stalling like he’s forgotten how to draw air. His fingers tighten around yours, his grip fierce and trembling. “You’re alive,” he echoes, voice raw, like he’s trying to convince himself as much as you.

“God, Y/N… you’re alive.” His voice breaks entirely, the words dissolving into a strangled sob.

You wrap your arm around him again, fingers tangling in the fabric of his shirt, clutching at him like he’s the only real thing left in the world. “I’m here,” you repeat, the words thick with tears. “I’m here, Jungwon. I’m not going anywhere.”

He trembles against you, his shoulders shaking as he lets himself break, lets himself feel every ounce of pain and relief and desperate, aching hope. And for a moment, it’s just the two of you, tangled together against the cold, cruel world outside. Two people clinging to each other like lifelines, refusing to let go.

And despite the ache in your body, the sheer exhaustion ravaging through your veins like fire, it doesn’t even compare to the yearning. The longing that pulses through you stronger than pain, sharper than fear. It’s like everything you’ve endured, every broken bone, every drop of blood spilled, has only been leading you to this moment.

His hands are trembling as they cradle your face, his touch impossibly gentle even as desperation trembles beneath his fingertips.

He presses his forehead to yours, his breath mingling with your own, both of you drawing in ragged, uneven gasps like you’re trying to remember how to breathe.

And then, his mouth finds yours, the kiss urgent and desperate and filled with everything he can’t say. His lips are rough and unsteady, his hands cradling your face as if you’re something precious, something he’s terrified of breaking.

“Jungwon…” His name leaves your lips like a plea, like a prayer, your voice barely more than a broken whisper.

“I’m here,” he breathes, his words shaking but fierce in their sincerity. “I’m here. I’m not leaving you.”

And you believe him. God, you believe him. Because you can feel it in the way his arms tighten around you, in the way his eyes burn with something deeper than relief—something like love, something like hope.

You press your face into the crook of his neck, breathing him in, grounding yourself in his presence. Because no matter how broken you feel, no matter how shattered and battered and barely holding on, Jungwon’s warmth fills the cracks. His presence mends the parts of you that have been fraying at the edges for so long.

When he finally pulls away, his eyes are searching yours, his breathing ragged and uneven. “Don’t ever do that to me again,” he says, his voice trembling. “Please. Don’t ever scare me like that again.”

You nod frantically, the motion sending fresh tears streaming down your cheeks as you cling to him, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt like it’s the only solid thing in a world gone mad. “I promise,” you whisper, the words spilling out with a fervency that feels like both a lie and a vow.

But even as the promise leaves your lips, you know it’s one you may never be able to keep. Because this world is a cruel, unpredictable place, where survival is measured in moments and safety is an illusion that can be torn away in an instant. And yet, despite the impossibility of it all, you want so desperately for it to be true.

Still, it’s a promise you’ll try your hardest to uphold. Even if you lose all your limbs, even if your body breaks and bends and folds beneath the weight of this relentless, unforgiving world, you’ll try. You’ll keep fighting for him. For all of them. For yourself. Even if every breath feels like a rebellion against death itself.

Jungwon tucks you in that night, his body angled towards yours as if trying to close every inch of distance between you. He lies on his arm, propped beneath his head, while his other hand gently threads through your hair, fingertips brushing tenderly against your cheek. His gaze is unwavering, his eyes tracing every detail of your face like he’s memorising you—like he’s still struggling to accept that this moment is real.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you murmur, a soft smile tugging at your lips as you nuzzle into the warmth of his touch. His fingers linger against your skin, delicate and reverent.

“I was just thinking how nice it would’ve been if we’d met in the world before all this,” he admits, his voice barely more than a whisper, each word weighed down by longing. The vulnerability in his tone is disarming. And you know exactly what he means. You’d had those thoughts before, fleeting and bittersweet. Wondering what it would’ve been like to meet him, to meet all of them, before the world tore itself apart.

“But if we did,” he continues, his eyes searching yours, “we wouldn’t have met each other the way we did. And I don’t know how I feel about that. I know I shouldn’t be happy that this is our reality. That everything’s gone to shit. But at the same time…” He trails off, a quiet, breathless laugh escaping him. “I’m so fucking happy you’re here. With us. With me.”

Your expression softens, your eyes glistening in the dim light. “Me too,” you whisper. And for a moment, the weight of the world fades away, leaving only the two of you tangled together in the fragile glow of something like hope.

“Gosh, not to break your bubble but some of us have been hauling dead bodies the entire day. Go to sleep.” Ni-ki’s voice cuts through the quiet, his tone laced with mock irritation as it echoes from the other side of the store.

You can’t help but let out a laugh, the sound coming out cracked and uneven but genuine all the same. Jungwon’s lips twitch into a smirk, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement.

“Sorry, Ni-ki. We’ll keep our heartfelt declarations to a minimum,” Jungwon calls back, his voice lighter than it’s been in days.

“Please do,” Ni-ki grumbles. “Some of us actually need sleep to function. Unlike you two, who apparently run on emotional angst and melodrama.”

You snort, burying your face against Jungwon’s shoulder to muffle the sound. “He’s got a point.”

“Yeah, well. He can complain all he wants.” Jungwon’s arm tightens around you, pulling you closer. “I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

Ni-ki mutters something about “disgusting couples” under his breath, but you can hear the smile in his voice. And as you drift off to sleep, cocooned in Jungwon’s warmth, you swear you catch the faintest hint of Ni-ki’s laughter from across the room.

The days blur together, bleeding into weeks. The aftermath of the battle is a bitter memory, but the world doesn’t stop for grief or guilt. It moves on, drags you with it, demanding blood and sweat and whatever scraps of hope you can muster.

The camp becomes something of a sanctuary, though the scars of what happened are still fresh. But with each passing sunrise, life finds a way to grow amid the ashes. It’s not perfect. Far from it. But it’s something. It’s yours.

Heeseung and Sunghoon have turned the gas station’s old garage into a makeshift workshop, fabricating weapons, fixing broken tools, and finding ways to reinforce the perimeter.

Ni-ki spends most of his time tinkering with the generator they managed to find, his hands stained with grease and dirt, his eyes constantly scanning the area for new materials to scavenge. He’s been working on fixing the lights inside the convenience store—solar-powered lamps that offer a faint, flickering glow through the darkest hours of the night.

Meanwhile, Sunoo has somehow managed to coax the earth into giving life. He and Jay have cultivated a small patch of vegetables in the cleared lot behind the station, green shoots from seeds they found in the backroom poke defiantly through the cracked soil. The produce is meagre, but it’s something. Something they’ve managed to grow from nothing. And if you’re being honest, it’s a refreshing change from the endless supply of canned food you’ve all grown so sick of.

Jake, on the other hand, is tirelessly working to set up a small infirmary in the backrooms of the convenience store. It’s a crude setup—scraps of old bed sheets strung up to create partitions, tables pushed together and covered with whatever clean material he can find. It’s not much. But it’s something. And Jake has never been one to settle for nothing.

You caught him once, hunched over the counter, scribbling notes in the margins of a medical textbook he managed to scavenge. He’s been trying to teach himself more advanced medical techniques—how to stitch deeper wounds, how to recognise infections before they become life-threatening, how to keep fevers from turning fatal. It’s admirable, if not a little reckless. But then, you suppose recklessness is a trait all of you share now.

You’re still healing, both physically and emotionally. Your stump is scarred and sore, but Jake assures you it’s healing well. You find yourself contributing in small ways, like offering the others water when they forget to hydrate themselves or helping to brainstorm plans and routes on their next expedition, all while still learning how to adapt to the limitations of your new body. And while it’s agonisingly slow, it’s progress.

And then there’s Jungwon.

Jungwon stays by your side most days, helping you adjust, never straying too far even when the others urge him to rest. He’s different now—quieter, his gaze haunted but still fierce. He’s more cautious, more deliberate. But there’s something else, too. A softness to him that wasn’t there before. Or maybe it was, and you just hadn’t seen it.

Most times, you find yourselves back on the rooftop. The place has become your refuge—an escape where the world’s chaos fades into a distant hum and it’s just the two of you, wrapped in the quiet of the night, the stars above like scattered fragments of a world that’s long since crumbled. It’s where you go when everything just feels too much, when the faces of the dead won’t leave you alone, when you need to feel like something still matters.

He’ll hold your hand and whisper reassurances you both desperately need to believe. And you’ll share stories—small, inconsequential details about your lives before everything fell apart. It feels like you can almost pretend the world is still intact. That the only thing that exists is you and Jungwon, just existing in the same space, breathing the same air. sharing the same silence, and reclaiming pieces of yourself you thought you’d lost forever.

You remember a conversation you had with Jungwon a few days after you woke up. It was one of those nights on the rooftop, where the air was cool and crisp, the stars sharp and clear against the darkness.

It had been a conversation you wouldn’t forget, not because of what was said but because of what it meant.

“You never told me how you managed to lead the horde away,” you say, your voice quiet, almost drowned out by the gentle rustle of the breeze.

Jungwon’s gaze flickers towards you, the faintest hint of a smile playing at his lips. But it’s not a happy smile. It’s something else—something strained and distant, like he’s trying to find the right words to explain the inexplicable.

“I don’t even remember half of it…” he admits, his voice thick, roughened by exhaustion he hasn’t yet shaken off. “I was just… making a whole lot of noise to lure them out. Screaming, banging on metal, anything to get their attention.” His fingers trace absent patterns along the rooftop surface, his eyes never quite meeting yours. “Then I just started walking… for two days straight I was just walking back towards the city.”

Your breath catches. You’ve heard fragments of what he did from the others, but hearing it from him—hearing the quiet resignation in his voice—it twists something deep within you.

“It started raining somewhere in the middle,” he continues, his tone growing distant, like he’s reliving it all over again. “I was cold, exhausted, fuck, I almost collapsed right there and then. My legs were giving out, my head was spinning… but I knew if I did, if I fell, I wouldn’t be able to come back to you. So I sucked it up.”

You’re staring at him now, eyes wide, the air suddenly feeling too thick, too sharp. The thought of him out there alone, fighting against the world itself just to keep you safe—it’s almost too much to bear.

“The horde was just mindlessly walking behind me,” Jungwon continues, his voice tightening. “Occasionally something else would catch their attention and I had to shoot a few bullets to get it back. That was risky… drawing attention like that. But it worked. They kept following me.”

He pauses, the weight of his own words pressing down on him like a lead blanket. “Eventually, I passed by the village. Remember the two people we left behind?”

You nod, a cold dread settling in your stomach. You remember the desperation in their voices, the hollow looks in their eyes as they pleaded with you to stay. And you remember leaving them behind anyway.

“They were there,” Jungwon says, voice hollow. “One of them had half their face chewed out and the other… the other had their guts hanging out of their body. They were just… walking. No purpose. No sense of anything. Just… dead.”

The silence that follows is brutal. You don’t realise you’ve stopped breathing until your lungs start to burn.

“I eventually reached the city,” Jungwon continues, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “I hid out in a random store. Waited for it to clear out a little before I started making my way back.”

“Jungwon…” Your voice trembles, your chest tightening with something that feels too close to grief. “I’m so sorry…”

“Why are you apologising?” Jungwon’s eyes finally find yours, a flicker of frustration mingling with something softer. “You didn’t make me do it. I chose to do it. And you know what? When I passed by the village again, I noticed a small patch of wildflowers growing at the side of the curb.”

His lips twitch into a small, self-deprecating smile, and his laugh is more air than sound. “Stupid me thought it was a sign that you’d woken up, so I started running back. Like a maniac. I tripped over some broken glass, nearly twisted my ankle, but I just kept going.”

He’s laughing, but the sound is hollow, edged with a madness born from desperation. You stare at him, your own chest tightening with something raw and painful, wondering how he could find humour in something so devastating. “How are you laughing like you didn’t almost die?”

Jungwon shrugs, the motion careless but his eyes—his eyes are anything but. “Trust me, after experiencing your near death… everything is laughable.”

It had taken you a moment to realise what he meant. That the thought of losing you had been so unbearable, so incomprehensibly horrifying, that everything else paled in comparison. That even his own suffering had become insignificant when measured against the possibility of losing you.

You remember how you had reached for him then, your hand finding his, fingers intertwining like they belonged there. How he had squeezed your hand so tightly it almost hurt, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

The two of you had sat there in silence, the cool night air brushing against your skin. And for that moment, it didn’t matter that the world was rotting. It didn’t matter that you were both scarred and afraid and haunted by ghosts you couldn’t outrun.

All that mattered was that you were still there. Still breathing. Still fighting.

You’ve both changed, that much is clear. But you’re trying to grow from it, not let the darkness consume you. Jungwon has his own demons to battle. The rage he harbours against A’s people is still there, burning beneath the surface. But it’s not consuming him anymore. Not entirely. He’s found something else to fight for. Something more important than revenge.

There’s a careful balance now, one of acceptance and compromise. You still argue, still struggle against the stubbornness that pulls you apart like opposing forces. There are days when he snaps, frustration boiling over when things don’t go as planned. And there are days when you retreat into yourself, overwhelmed by the reality of your own limitations. But you talk. You let yourselves be honest, raw. And somehow, it makes all the difference.

You think about the garden often. It’s a quiet thought, one that creeps into your mind during the silences between breaths, when the world feels steady and the nightmares are held at bay. You still remember the metaphor you conjured for him—wildflowers breaking through cracks, roots winding their way through stone, claiming life where there shouldn’t be any.

But now, you realise it’s not just about him. It’s about all of you.

It’s in the way Sunoo coax life from the soil. It’s in Jake’s quiet determination as he scours books. It’s in Ni-ki’s resourcefulness as he scavenges supplies, building something from nothing. It’s in Sunghoon and Heeseung’s tireless efforts to keep everyone safe, their strength unyielding even when exhaustion clings to their bones.

It’s in Jay’s stubbornness, his dedication to protecting what’s left of this fractured family, even when his own doubts threaten to swallow him whole.

And it’s in Jungwon. The boy whose name means ‘garden’. The boy who, despite the darkness pressing in from every side, still reaches for the light. Still fights to grow, to thrive, to protect the things he’s come to care about.

You think of all the times you tried to pull away, tried to distance yourself from the tangled web of connections that’s formed between you all. You think of the nights you spent on the rooftop with Jungwon, trading secrets and fears like offerings, daring to believe that maybe you weren’t as alone as you thought.

The truth is, you’ve taken root here. Somehow, against all logic and reason, you’ve let yourself be part of something. You’ve let yourself care. And as much as you’ve tried to convince yourself otherwise, you can’t keep running from that.

Because gardens aren’t meant to be contained. They’re meant to grow wild and untamed, to spread and intertwine and thrive in the most unexpected places. And maybe—just maybe—that’s what this is.

A wild, tangled, beautiful mess of people who’ve found each other in a world that’s done everything to tear them apart.

Now, you climb up the ladder with more ease, having slowly adapted to the awkwardness of using only one arm. The process is far from graceful, but you manage.

And when you reach the top, Jungwon is already there, his back resting against the convenience store sign, arms draped over his knees as he watches the fractured skyline. He looks tired, eyes bruised with exhaustion but softened by a look that borders on longing.

He glances over his shoulder at the sound of your approach, and some of that tension melts away. He offers you a small smile, the kind that feels just a little too tight around the edges.

The air is cool and crisp, autumn bleeding into winter, and you feel the cold bite at your skin. You draw in a breath, feeling the chill of the air scrape against your lungs. But the moment you settle beside him, his hand slides into yours, pulling you into his warmth without hesitation.

You lean into him, letting yourself soak in the quiet. “Heard you had an appointment with Jake today,” Jungwon says eventually, his voice low and careful. “What did he say about your arm?”

You glance down at the stump of your arm, the place where flesh used to be. “He says it’s healing well. But I guess my body’s still adjusting.” You lift your arm—what’s left of it—and shrug as if it’s not a big deal. As if it’s not still tearing you apart from the inside out.

Jungwon’s gaze lingers on your arm for a moment, but he doesn’t flinch or avert his eyes like the others sometimes do. He meets it head-on, his acceptance so genuine it almost hurts. “Does it hurt?”

“Not really. Not anymore,” you answer, though it feels like a lie. It’s not pain in the conventional sense. “It just… feels weird. Like it’s still there sometimes. Like I can still move my fingers if I try hard enough.”

“Phantom pain,” he murmurs, the words sounding heavy on his tongue. “Jake mentioned something about that. How your brain’s still trying to make sense of what’s gone.”

“Yeah.” Your throat tightens, a lump forming that you can’t seem to swallow down. “I guess it’s like trying to walk when your legs are asleep. The more you try, the more it hurts.” The admission is raw, but Jungwon doesn’t shy away from it. Instead, he shifts closer, his warmth seeping into your bones.

He watches you, eyes searching, waiting for something you’re not sure you can give. And you hate how perceptive he is, how easily he sees through the cracks you try so hard to hide.

“I’ve been thinking,” he starts, his gaze fixed on the jagged silhouette of the city as if the answers lie somewhere beyond the darkness. “About all of this. About us. About… you.”

Your eyes flicker toward him, curious but patient. A silence falls between you, one that feels too heavy to break. And then he speaks again, this time he’s looking at you when he does. “You’ve been different since it happened.”

“What do you mean?”

“Not in a bad way,” he says quickly, his voice stumbling over itself. “You’re just… you’re quieter. You’re more careful. It’s like you’re always holding something back.”

You want to deny it, to tell him he’s wrong. But you can’t. Because he’s right. You’ve become cautious, restrained, afraid of repeating the mistakes that nearly cost you everything.

“Maybe I am,” you admit, the words barely above a whisper. “I think… I think it’s because I realised how close I came to losing everything. And not just my life. But all of you.”

“Everything feels so fragile,” you continue, your voice wavering. “Like it could all fall apart any second. And I keep waiting for something to go wrong. For someone to get hurt again. For me to lose you.” The confession spills out before you can swallow it back, your voice cracking under the weight of the fear that’s been festering inside you.

Jungwon shifts closer, his arm coming around your shoulders, pulling you into him. The warmth of his body seeps into yours, his fingers tracing gentle circles along your upper arm. “You’re not going to lose me,” he says, his voice steady and fierce. “Not now. Not ever. I won’t let that happen.”

“But you can’t promise that.” Your words tremble, tears burning the corners of your eyes. “None of us can.”

He hesitates, his expression clouded, the weight of his own words pressing against him. “No, we can’t.” His admission is soft, broken. “But we can fight for it. We can make it count. And we can do it together.”

“Together.” The word feels heavy on your tongue. You want to believe him, want to cling to the conviction in his voice. But his certainty only makes your own doubts grow louder.

Because the truth is, you’re terrified. Terrified that this second chance is nothing more than a cruel joke. That you’ll fail them again. That you’ll get someone killed. That you’ll keep making reckless decisions because you’re too stubborn to admit you can’t do this alone.

He’s quiet for a moment, his eyes never leaving yours. The silence stretches between you, thick and heavy, but not uncomfortable. Just… real. Then, slowly, he reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingertips lingering against your skin, warm and steady. His thumb brushes over your cheek, tracing small, soothing circles that send a shiver down your spine.

“Y/N. You didn’t lose us. You’re still here. And it's because you fought for this, the same way you’ll continue fighting for this. Am I wrong to say that?” His voice is low, soft, but there’s a strength beneath it—a quiet conviction that refuses to break. His eyes bore into yours, searching, as if daring you to deny what he’s saying. As if his words alone could anchor you to this moment, to this fragile hope you’re both trying so hard to keep alive.

But it’s more than just words. It’s the way his touch grounds you, the way he holds you like you’re something precious, something worth fighting for. It’s not just reassurance he’s offering—it’s belief. A belief so strong it feels like it could shatter all the doubts you’ve been harbouring since you woke up, feverish and broken and terrified you’d never be yourself again.

And you realise, with a clarity that cuts through the doubt like a blade, that he’s right.

You’re still here. Bruised and battered and so damn tired, but you’re here.

The night stretches on, the air thick with the scent of soil and metal, the quiet hum of insects, the distant creak of the watchtower Ni-ki and Heeseung built not long ago swaying in the breeze. You lean against Jungwon, your head resting on his shoulder, your hand curled around his. It’s not perfect. It’s not easy. But it’s something. And maybe that’s enough.

And then, when the silence feels like it’s about to swallow you whole, he starts to sing.

His voice is soft, hesitant at first, but it grows stronger with each note, weaving through the air like a thread of gold. You close your eyes and listen, the melody sinking into your bones, soothing the ache of old wounds and new fears alike.

You recognise the song. It’s the same one he sang to you when you thought you might never wake up. The same one that carried you through the darkness and back to him.

Just close your eyes The sun is going down You'll be alright No one can hurt you now Come morning light You and I'll be safe and sound

The song ends, but the warmth of his voice lingers. And as you sit there, tangled up in each other, you realise that the fear hasn’t gone away. It never will. But it’s quieter now. Bearable. Something you can live with.

You’re reminded again how both of you are not just trying to survive, but you’re learning how to live. And for the first time, you let yourself feel the weight of it. The love. The fear. The hope. And you know—whether you deserve it or not—you can’t push them away. Not anymore.

The rest of the night passes in silence, leaving you alone with a thought that plagues your mind: Is it weird to say you met your soulmate in the middle of a zombie apocalypse?

Maybe it is. And if so, then you’re weird. To find people you care about in the same way they care about you feels like a miracle in a world where kindness is punished and compassion is a weakness. Where caring too much can get you killed.

But you found them. Against all odds, you found them. And somehow, that feels more surreal than the dead walking the earth. Because, really, what are the chances? That you’d stumble upon people willing to risk everything for you? People who’ve seen you at your lowest, your most broken, and still choose to stay?

What are the chances that, even in a world this cruel and unforgiving, you’d find someone who holds your hand like you’re still whole? Someone who looks at you like you’re something precious, something worth protecting, worth loving.

The others have joked about it before. How you and Jungwon gravitate toward each other like it’s second nature. How he becomes someone else entirely when it comes to you. And maybe there’s some truth to it. Because when he looks at you, it’s not just with fondness or admiration. It’s with something deeper, something that grounds you even when everything else is falling apart.

The world outside is a nightmare, a constant fight for survival. And yet, somehow, you’ve found your place. Not just in the camp you’ve built, but in the blooming garden of the boy who holds you like you’re his reason to keep fighting. Like you’re his reason to hope.

So, maybe it is weird. Maybe it’s insane to believe in love in a world like this. But as you sit beside Jungwon on the rooftop, his arm draped over your shoulders, his fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns along your skin, you realise you don’t care how absurd it sounds.

You found your soulmate in the middle of a zombie apocalypse.

And it’s in that moment, with his arms wrapped around you, his heartbeat thundering against your own, that you truly understand what it means to be alive. To feel everything—joy, pain, love, fear, hope—so intensely that it leaves you breathless.

You’re alive. And so is he. And somehow, against all odds, you’re here. Together.

You fall asleep on the rooftop that night, your head resting against Jungwon’s shoulder, his arm wrapped around you. The stars blaze above, indifferent and eternal, but for the first time in a long, long time—

You feel safe. You feel sound.

part 6 - dusk | masterlist

♡。·˚˚· ·˚˚·。♡

notes from nat: omg... i actually did it. i actually finished this. 124k words. I've peaked. I'm never recovering from this series, actually. first of all, thank you so much to every single one of you who've supported me and this series. i know the wait in between parts were lowkey incriminating, and yet all of you were still so kind and patient. I'm not an author who knows how to fully engage her audience interaction-wise and I truly appreciate all of you for approaching me and engaging with my blog. the amount of mutuals and lovely people I came to know through this series is actually insane. so thank you, from the bottom of my heart. I'll talk more about my feelings and thoughts writing this series in a separate post, but for now this is where I officially close out safe & sound. this is definitely not the last time you will hear from me but until then, please stay safe & healthy!

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mingtinys · 11 months ago

Text

how flowers bloom and wither

pairing : lee chan x gn!reader , platonic! boo seungkwan x reader

apocalypse!au , exes to lovers , angst , hurt / minimal comfort

warnings : language , death , apocalyptic themes , depictions of wounds and blood , suicidal ideation , this is not a happy ending or story

word count : 6.3 k

requested ? no

a/n : heavily inspired by this juyeon fic that made my cry in my car (p.s. there is a jeonghan ver as well).

Your voice is the first to call his name in months. It's been so long that the cadence of it sounds foreign to his ears. Almost like another language entirely. A cry from the distance, barely audible in a way he easily dismisses it as a hallucination. Perhaps he was finally going mad.

He knows other survivors exist, he'd seen them in nearly every town he scavenged. Though in no reality had he ever assumed any of them knew his name. The world had not been kind enough to spare anyone who knew and loved Lee Chan. They'd all been swept away in the initial outbreak. And with no one tethering him to his own existence, he was no more than a living ghost amongst the ruins.

But then the voice calls again, this time closer. Behind him. Louder.

"Chan? Lee Chan!"

And even stranger, he knows this voice. Better than he knows the sound of his own name. Could pick it out of a crowd, blindfolded and all.

Though he still can't bring himself to believe it. Not even as he turns and your silhouette comes into view against the setting sun, your elongated shadow reaching out for him. Tattered shoes well beyond their usable years slap against the pavement as you sprint.

"Oh my God, Chan!"

It has to be a mirage. You'll pass straight through him like an apparition and the universe will laugh at him for believing another one of its cruel jokes.

Yet still, his arms open, and seconds later your full weight crashes into him. Like a tide breaking the shore, stirring up memories like loose sand in its wake.

It's the first time in months he's been held. Felt the warm touch of anything living, much less the safety of something familiar. Tears fill his eyes instantly as Chan clings to the one thing from his past he could never seem to bury. To what he can only assume is a pity gift from the universe making up for all the times it fucked him over. To you.

Your chest heaves against his as you ask, "Is it you? Is this real?"

Chan himself doesn't know the answer to that.

"I can't believe I found you," you breathe out once the air surrounding you two settles. You haven't let go yet and Chan doesn't want you to. Worried that when you finally do, he'll wake up back in the crumbling shed he'd used for shelter the night before. With his back against a cold, moldy mattress instead of being held by the warmth of a thousand suns. Alone again.

"Please say something," you nervously laugh. Despite the chill in the air, Chan's cheeks are burning up. He's at a loss, far too overwhelmed to produce anything remotely coherent. Though as you peel away to examine him, concern knitting your brows, one word does come to mind.

Wow.

You're still as radiant as he remembered. A diamond amongst the ruins of the world. It looks, for the most part, the universe has been kind to you. Good, he thinks.

"You're not..." Your expression falls. "You're not sick, are you?"

It's the fear in your eyes that finally prompts Chan to push down the lump in his throat. "No!" He rasps, then clears his throat. "No, I'm not sick. Promise."

"Are you hungry?"

Chan looks back at the reason he'd left his shelter in the first place, the rundown mini-mart about a hundred feet away. The stabbing pain in his stomach brings him back down to reality.

"There's nothing worthwhile in there, we already checked."

We?

Your arm extends to point past the mini-mart. Towards a small abandoned town that pokes out just beyond the darkening horizon. "Our shelter is just about a mile that way. Would you–"

He agrees before you've even finished your sentence.

Chan cannot fathom the hope you hold in your heart in a world like this. Not until he meets Seungkwan. The vibrant boy you've been traveling with thus far.

"You can't go around picking up strays."

"He's not a stray, Kwan, he's an old friend. Besides, you were a stray at one point too." You disappear into another room before the boy can argue any further. Leaving him to glower at his new guest.

"If you start acting strange, I'll kill you." Seungkwan points at Chan, though he's not the least bit threatening. His shiny eyes and round face are far too friendly to ever be perceived as intimidating.

Yet Chan humors the boy anyway. "Virus-free, I promise." He raises his hands in surrender.

"And don't touch anything." He motions around the living room, which is surprisingly homey.

When you mentioned you had a shelter nearby, Chan was expecting something a little less... comfortable. Something like the random sheds or raided stores he'd crouch into for just a few hours of shut-eye, never any longer. Or perhaps even a poorly constructed tent made up of various scrap parts. But when you climbed the stairs to a tiny townhouse, one of the better-looking ones amongst the multiple shells of former homes in the neighborhood, Chan almost couldn't believe his eyes. Perhaps this really was all just a dream.

The outside, for the most part, looked pretty decent. There had been some obvious repairs done; trash cleaned from the yard, wooden boards haphazardly nailed over broken windows, a tattered blue tarp covering a large section of the roof, and Chan could just barely make out remnants of graffiti that couldn't be scrubbed away. But the blue paint was hardly peeling and the stone steps had only a few cracks.

When it came to the inside, one word came to mind. Charming. None of the furniture matches, meaning either the previous owner hadn't cared for aesthetics or you and Seungkwan had at some point scavenged the surrounding houses in search of the least fucked up looking decor. Even then, it was really just the bare essentials. A surprisingly comfortable couch, two rocking chairs that look as though the wood had been chewed by squirrels, a metal center table, and a couple bookshelves filled with various novels, picture frames of strangers, and knickknacks.

Down the short hallway to the left are two closed doors. Of which he assumes is a single bedroom and bath respectively. Behind him, where you had disappeared to, is a door he'd quickly caught a glimpse of the kitchen through.

Most notably, however, against the back wall of the living room is a stone fireplace. Ablaze with such life it fully illuminates the space, providing a much-needed warmth as the brisk night rolls in. Chan watches it dance over the mound of logs, completely entranced until that same lovely voice from before calls his name once more.

"All we really have left from our last supply run is tuna, I hope that's okay." In your hands is a bowl with a small portion of rice and half a can of tuna, along with a glass of water. It's no five-star meal, but Chan's mouth still waters at the sight. And better yet, it's warm. He can't remember the last time he had a meal that wasn't a can of cold mystery mush or a granola bar.

He half expects Seungkwan to gripe about him taking something as precious in this world as food. But the boy snorts and a teasing smile creeps its way onto his lips. "Poor kid looks like he'll start drooling any second, I think tuna is more than okay."

He's right, tuna and rice is more than okay. In fact, it's the best damn thing he's ever had in his life. Even as he shovels spoonful after spoonful into his mouth, it only gets better. It isn't until every morsel of food has vanished from the bowl that Chan finally acknowledges his drink. Gulping the clear, luke-warm, liquid down in a matter of seconds.

"Thank you," he breaths out.

"So what are your plans? Are you leaving in the morning?" Seungkwan promptly asks.

Oh.

A chasm opens in Chan's stomach. Right, he thinks, How could he be so naive? Sure, the two of you knew each other. But it's been what, three years? Three years of the two of you living your own lives, growing, becoming new people. Almost a full one of those years spent fighting to survive. You didn't even owe him a meal to begin with, much less a place to stay. And, not to mention, Seungkwan doesn't know him from a hole in the wall.

He isn't sure why he assumed you'd stick by his side. But he'd sure hoped you would.

You have an equally solemn look on your face. "Right, you probably have people you need to get back to. They'll be worried if you stay too long."

"No, actually, it's just me."

Please. Chan silently pleads. Please don't leave me alone again.

You lock eyes with Seungkwan. A silent conversation between the two of you has Chan's heart pounding against his ribs.

"Can I talk to you?" Seungkwan motions you to follow him down the hall and into the solo bedroom.

Minutes feel like hours; and no matter how hard he tries, Chan can't decipher anything from the muffled whispers. It's just a flurry of back and forth until it stops with Seungkwan letting out a long sigh.

When Chan sees your nervous, fidgeting, figure appear with Seungkwan in tow, he starts mentally preparing for a no.

"There's only one bedroom," Seungkwan states, arms crossed. "So we'll have to rearrange the sleeping arrangements—"

"I'll sleep anywhere," Chan immediately bargains. "I can take the couch—"

"Absolutely not." The older boy jabs a finger at him, his stare menacing. "That couch is the nicest thing we have, if anything it's mine."

That is perfectly fine with Chan. In fact, he'd take the termite-chewed wooden floor if that's what it would take. "Does this mean..?"

"Yes," the boy exaggeratedly rolls his eyes, but the action doesn't feel malicious. More like a brother teasing his younger siblings. "You're lucky, you had a very reliable source vouch for you."

It feels like Chan can breathe for the first time since this whole shit-storm began. The weight that lifts from his chest makes him feel as though he's floating. And as your soft gaze catches him, he sees it. That indomitable glimmer of hope humanity has to offer. A light at the end of a dark tunnel. Security wrapped up in a warm, fluffy blanket.

A second chance to be alive.

Seungkwan, as Chan quickly learns, had dreams of being a singer back before. There's rarely been a quiet moment in the week since you found Chan. If he's doing repairs, he's humming. If he's taking inventory, he's softly mumbling along to some tune. If he's sat by the fire at night, his voice carries beyond the walls and into the night.

It's strange. Chan hadn't realized just how quiet being alone was until now. But you enjoy Seungkwan's voice, and it eases you to sleep on Chan's shoulder. So he enjoys it as well.

"Are they asleep?" He asks, letting his song teeter off, voice just barely audible above the crackling logs.

Chan looks down at the slow rise and fall of your chest. He smiles fondly, dropping his shoulder a tad lower to not strain your neck. By now, he's finally gotten over the disbelief of his luck in finding you— well, more so you finding him. Deciding to no longer question the probability of it all and simply cherish the feeling you bring him.

"Yeah, I think so."

Similarly, Chan has also learned that as much of a tough guy act as Seungkwan puts on, he's got an incredibly soft heart. It's pertinent in his gaze and the discreet ways he dotes on anyone around him. Bickering with Chan to wear something warmer even though Spring is around the corner or fussing at you to take an extra portion of rations.

In an alternate life, Chan likes to think he and the boy could've been life-long friends.

"How long were you out there alone?" He muses, a curious look on his face.

"Since the first outbreak," Chan answers casually. Though, Seungkwan's eyes go wide in horror.

"Seriously?"

"Yeah, why? How long were you?"

"Three weeks, maybe." He shrugs. "Give or take a few days. We ran into each other pretty early on and we've stuck together ever since. Found this place about four months ago and tried to make it feel somewhat normal."

"Oh, that's nice." Chan forgets that for some, life kept moving. Even as society crumbled, humanity persisted. Some in vain, some succeeding, and others, like himself, not at all.

"Can I ask something else?" Seungkwan pulls him from his thoughts. There's a prying curiosity that's scribbled all over his face. Grinning like a schoolgirl with fresh gossip to tell her friends. Chan decides to entertain his curious mind, nodding.

"How do you two know each other?" He gestures at the two of you curled up on the couch. "Like, what's the story there?"

Chan's heart drops straight into his ass and like a reflex, he glances down to ensure you're really asleep. The two of you haven't exactly gotten the chance to talk about everything quite yet. So as of now, he isn't sure where you stand. He decides the more vague the better.

"We met in our third year of university. Their roommate was friends with my roommate."

Seungkwan squints his eyes, visibly displeased with that answer. "And?"

"And..." Chan toys with the material of his pants. "We dated. Two years. Just... didn't work out in the end."

Chan seriously wishes Seungkwan's facial expressions weren't so telling. That way he'd be able to at least pretend he was getting out of this conversation any time soon. But still, the boy persists, nagging him about the who's, what's, when's, where's, and why's until Chan caves. Explaining everything from the stolen glances that started it all, to the teary-eyed bittersweet end.

He vividly remembers the way regret pooled in his chest the moment your front door shut. Making his chest feel cold and empty, a feeling that stuck around nearly every day after. Reminding him of what he let go of for the past three years. The conversation plays on in a loop in his head, and since then, he's thought up about a thousand ways he would've done differently.

"Are you saying you want to break up?" Your voice was so small it ripped Chan's heart in two.

"No! I just— I mean, but... shouldn't we?"

"Our lives started growing in different directions faster than we could keep up." He explains to Seungkwan, who's been uncharacteristically quiet. Not once stopping to interject his opinion or pop in another question. "They were offered a really good internship a few cities away. I was given the opportunity to be mentored by a renowned choreographer. We'd both be so busy. It didn't seem fair to hold each other back from our dreams. There wasn't much of a choice."

But that's not true. Chan ripped the bandaid off long before it could prove to stand the test of time because he was scared. He assumed the love you felt for him would slowly wither and die with the distance. Drawn out in a slow and painful process he couldn't bear the burden of. So he ran, like a coward, and left you to deal with the fallout by yourself.

It's funny, how the universe deals out karma.

"Probably the dumbest decision I've ever made."

Seungkwan hums, relaxing back into his wooden rocking chair, seemingly deep in thought. A silence settles over the room, only the sound of dying embers softly crackling fills the air.

You stir next to him, nose cutely scrunched up as you search for a more comfortable position. Chan hooks his arm around your waist, pulling you to fully lean against him, being extra cautious not to accidentally jostle you awake. You finally settle, and he can't help but notice your body still fits against his perfectly. Just like to used to.

And when Chan lifts his head back to meet Seungkwan's eyes, he catches the tail end of a fond smile. He rises from the chair, making his way around behind the sofa.

"You made it back, that's all that matters." He whispers, hand on Chan's shoulder. "You don't get a lot of second chances in life— much less in the middle of the apocalypse. Maybe it's time you stop just trying to survive and start letting yourself live. Whatever that looks like for you."

Spring rounds the corner like an old friend. Marking officially one year since the world went to shit and bringing with it much-needed rain in the form of rolling storms. One brews on the horizon, dark clouds gradually closing in on the afternoon sun. The cool breeze feels refreshing against Chan's damp skin. A pleasant contrast to the heavy bag slung over his shoulder, filled with scavenged treasures from the latest scout.

"You know, I offered to carry it halfway," you tease, significantly less out of breath than Chan on your trek back home. The exterior of the townhouse hadn't fared well with the harsh storms, yet it's a welcomed sight nonetheless.

"Yeah, but that would require him relinquishing about this much pride," Seungkwan laughs while pinching his fingers together, squinting through the narrow gap between them.

"It's not even that heavy," Chan scoffs, and if you clock his lie, you don't make it known.

"Whatever you say, golden boy," Seungkwan snickers, the corner of his lip quirked up in a smirk before veering off to the small plot just to the left of the entrance steps.

Seungkwan, arguably the most excited for Spring to arrive, had taken up gardening. Plowing up the soil with a water-logged wooden shovel and planting various packs of seeds he'd once found on a scout. They were mostly just flowers, anything useful like fruits and veggies having already been snatched up by other scavengers. However, he'd been lucky enough to find one packet of tomato seeds, one of green onion seeds, and another of squash seeds. The boy has a surprisingly green thumb, having created a flourishing garden in just a month.

"It's looking beautiful, Seungkwan. Another few weeks and we may actually have something to eat that isn't out of a can." You praise, admiring the colorful arrangement as well.

Sure, the fruits and veggies are nice, but Chan much prefers the cluster of voluminous purple hyacinths. Their vibrant color reminds him of the rich sunsets he'd use as a child to gauge when to return home for dinner.

He swiftly plucks a single bloom from the arrangement and places it behind your ear. You smile at the gesture, and it somehow shines brighter than the flower itself. A sight he believes is capable of parting the gray clouds stretching across the sky.

"Stop killing my babies, Lee Chan." Seungkwan chastises, annoyance evident in his tone.

"Sorry," he sheepishly grins, remembering Seungkwan's no-touching rule he had applied to the garden.

In the distance, there's a low rumbling that draws your attention to the sky. "We should go in before it starts pouring." You take Chan's hand, tugging him inside while his heart beats out of his chest. You call out for Seungkwan as well, urging him that his babies will be fine in the rapidly approaching storm.

Rain slowly begins to patter against the rafters the second the front door squeaks shut. Crescendoing to a downpour within a matter of minutes. Sounds like the three of you are in for a long one tonight.

It was hard to notice at first. The occasional slip-ups here and there. Easy enough to blame the rising Summer heat on Seungkwan's mood swings. Even if the boy had been more readily agitated lately, his bubbly moments stuck around in an abundance that excused the outbursts.

Though Chan can't quite get over that look on your face the first time Seungkwan snapped at you. Something about his bush of hydrangeas being disturbed despite you insisting you hadn't laid so much as a finger on his garden. But the moment tears slipped from your irises, Seungkwan crumbled. His eyes blown wide in horror as the realization hit. He uttered endless apologies, begging for forgiveness until you assured him everything was okay.

And to his credit, he hadn't had an outburst that big since. But still, you made sure to be extra cautious around his garden from then on out.

The red patches painting his arms are harder to ignore, though. Especially with the incessant noise of nails obsessively itching at dry skin.

"Are you okay?" Chan asks, finally voicing his concerns after watching the boy go at his skin with an inhuman determination for the past half hour. The sight reminding him of a rabid dog infested with fleas. With little care for its own health, left only with the insatiable urge to make the itching stop.

Seungkwan's head snaps up with feral eyes, though they dissolve into cheery crescents quick enough to fool Chan into believing he was just imagining things. Perhaps he'd been a little too on guard around his friend. The sweltering heat surely didn't help his nerves.

"Yeah," he chuckles. "I must've gotten into some poison ivy, it's been driving me mad."

It only got worse.

The scratching.

It keeps Chan awake in the late night hours. That dry sound echoing in his head over and over and over and over. And during the day, despite it being the peak of Summer, Seungkwan wears long sleeves. They do well in muffling the sound and hiding whatever visuals resulted from the night before. Yet, he forgets to scrub the dried blood from under his nails.

There's an unease that settles in Chan's chest and makes a nest there. A feeling that comes in waves, yet never fully leaves him. It consumes his thoughts and taints the air in his lungs until he feels like he may choke on it. Unable to breathe a single word about his worries without accidentally manifesting them into fruition. Because perhaps nothing is awry. Perhaps Chan is the one slowly losing his mind.

After all, you've yet to mention anything. Content with humoring Seungkwan's better moments in spite of his worst.

Perhaps, Chan is still stuck in his mirage.

It happened again.

Seungkwan snapped and this time Chan had to intervene.

Over his garden again.

The once glorious flowers were sad and wilting, through no fault of anyone's, but the elements. The heat was harsh on them and there hadn't been enough rain in a while to revive them. Not to mention, Seungkwan simply hadn't been tending to them as much as he thought he had. He spent most of his days now obsessing over illusions instead.

Swore he saw spiders in the rations. Heard scratching in the walls. Had caught shadows of looters pacing outside at night.

You called it dehydration.

But he'd somehow gotten it into his head you'd been poisoning the soil when he wasn't looking. He swung the front door open so hard it nearly flew off its hinges, yelling obscenities about how you betrayed him. How rotten and horrid you were for killing the one thing that'd given him any semblance of joy. Chan swears he's never seen someone so unhinged as Seungkwan in that moment.

All it took was three large steps in your direction for Chan to brace himself in front of you. However, all it really took to freeze Seungkwan in his steps was his name. Loud and firm. Lighting a clarity in his eyes that's been missing for a few days now. He ushers the boy outside with haste. Too afraid to look back at your crumbling face.

Seungkwan collapses down on the stone steps. He pulls his knees to his chest and digs his palms into his eyes, hard. "I fucked up, didn't I?" He whimpers.

Chan doesn't know what to say. He did. But confirming it when he's in such a state seems cruel. And he doesn't care to twist the knife any further. He just takes a seat next to what's left of his friend and lays a comforting hand on his back.

"I'm scared." Seungkwan's head tips back to the sky. Chan had always been under the assumption that Seungkwan was oblivious to his deteriorating state. But the steady stream of tears down the boy's cheeks says otherwise.

"I can feel my mind slowly becoming not my own."

"Maybe it's not—"

"I already tried telling myself that." Chan's heart sinks as the boy hikes up his sleeves. Revealing the angry red tracks and rust-colored scabs covering a majority of his forearms. Some wounds still look fresh, and painfully deep.

"That's the first symptom, right? Feeling like there's ants under your skin. Being easily irritated. Foggy memories, whole days missing..." He looks ahead at the setting sun. "I'm already seeing things. Was it one or two months the broadcast said the infected have once those start?"

Chan tries to remember back to when his radio crackled to life for the first time. He's pretty sure it's one.

"I can't remember."

Seungkwan pushes a bitter laugh through his nostrils. "Me either."

Chan glances at the sad plot of greenery beside him. He frowns at the way the tulips droop and their petals hang limp. At least those who are still trying to hold on. Desperate to escape the same fate as their counterparts that have already begun decaying into the soil.

He looks back to Seungkwan and wonders what it's like. To have the tulips weep for you. For them to bow their heads and shed their petals like tears. He also wonders if you'll grieve for Seungkwan as gracefully as they do.

"Promise me one thing?" Seungkwan whispers. His eyes already look like they're glazing over again.

"Anything."

He speaks your name with longing. "Take care of them, yeah? I know it seems like they have their shit together, but that's not how it always was."

"What do you mean?" Chan asks, skin crawling. But Seungkwan continues to stare ahead, eyes focused on who knows what in the distance. He blinks slowly, "It's not my story to tell. Just... promise."

"I promise. Don't worry, it's not something you even have to ask."

"The garden, too." His lips lift at the corners. Chan thinks it's a smile, but it's too uncanny to recognize. "If you're taking requests."

He agrees, partly to provide Seungkwan with what little peace of mind he can offer him, but also because he already has been. Chan tries on occasion to care for the sad little plants. Wetting the soil with what little water he can spare.

Part of him naively hoped that maybe somehow, some way, if the garden could be nursed back to its former glory, so could Seungkwan. But deep down, Chan has learned to tell the difference between a dream and reality by now.

And the reality is, Seungkwan reeks of borrowed time.

The world stole your smile when it stole Seungkwan. It ripped his soul from your grasp as Chan held you in his. Kicking and screaming.

Endless tears streaming down his cheeks as he fought to hold you back. Your pleas grew more desperate and wrangled. Mixing with the garbled, wretched, shrieks of your friend. Fingers clawing at his eyes. The virus embedded so deep in his brain he was no longer Seungkwan.

Just another host.

Your voice was the last to call Seungkwan's name that day. Raspy and hollow as you begged for his life. Begged the universe to not take the last ray of sunshine the world had to offer. Begged Seungkwan to fight just one more day. Begged Chan to let you save him despite all hope having set when the sun did. The scratches you'd left on his forearms remained a week after. But the hole Seungkwan's presence left has yet to fade.

Neither of you spoke of the boy in that time. He still doesn't know if that's for better or worse. Chan's terrified you'll shatter if he so much as whispers the boy's name. But to act like he never existed in the wake of it... well, that just doesn't feel right either.

But Chan knows there's no proper way to grieve. He figured that out at the beginning. He'd had damn near a year to mourn everyone he ever loved, you've only had a week. He knows with time, acceptance will come. But it kills him not knowing how to help.

So instead, Chan does the hard stuff.

He buries Seungkwan. Next to his garden, so that next Spring he can watch it grow. He stacks rocks as a makeshift headstone and plucks dried, stiff asphodel from the garden to make it look neat. He rearranges the bookshelf into a tiny shrine of Seungkwan's things. His favorite books he'd read over and over. A silver ring, with some date Chan doesn't know the meaning of carved into it. A liquor bottle that he used as a makeshift vase with the last flowers he picked still in it. Long dead, but the petals somehow still holding on. Replaces one of the bronze picture frames of strangers with a photo he found tucked away in Seungkwan's bag. One of him and two other people he assumes are his parents.

And when he's done, he lights a candle, the flame drawing you out like a moth.

"What is this?" you croak. It's the first you've spoken to Chan since it happened.

"Something to honor him," Chan whispers, keeping his gaze locked on the flickering light. He's too scared to see your reaction. Afraid you'll break down again. Afraid you'll hate it and scream that he has no right to mourn someone you loved for longer. Afraid that if he sees your tears flowing, he won't be able to stop his own.

Because he also knows part of you still resents him for that night. For grabbing your waist and stopping your momentum from hurtling towards Seungkwan. Robbing you of the chance to hold and comfort your friend one last time. Your screams echo in his head as a reminder whenever your gaze refuses to meet his or you shrug away from his touch.

But then your head falls to his shoulder like an olive branch stretching across a battlefield. Your sniffles break through the silence. Chan hesitantly pulls you closer, and when you don't flinch away, he does even more so until your full weight is against him.

When Seungkwan was here, there was rarely a moment of silence. But now, the house, and you, are quiet. And all Chan can hear are the sounds of heartbreak. Never before had he thought it could be so incredibly loud.

The cold air sneaks in sometime around mid-November. Bringing with it longer nights and temperatures low enough to warrant nightly fires again.

You haven't talked much since the night you cried your heart out on Chan's shoulder. Operating more like a zombie replicating past routines from life before. Wake up. Scavenge. Eat. Sleep. So when you offer up the first ounce of interest in something other than your daily routine, Chan nearly jumps out of his skin.

"I miss the ocean," you mumble, solemn eyes looking down at the crackling fire. The tip of your nose red from the chill.

"We can go if you want... If it would make you happy." He says though he'd settle for content. To bring you back, he'd do anything.

You nod. "Yeah, I'd like that."

And Chan makes it happen.

Maps out the closest beach. Rigs up two rusty old bikes he found in a shed. Packs enough provisions just in case. All for the sake of maybe returning with a sliver of the person you used to be.

The two of you easily find the rocky formation looking over the dark sea, waves raging below. It's here, that Chan truly realizes just how much of a shell you've become of your former self. The way you inch closer and closer to the sharp edge is lifeless. Like a magnet being pulled at with no will of your own. It lodges a dagger of dread through the center of his chest.

"Don't go so close, you could slip." Chan doesn't know if you can't hear him over the crashing waves below or if you simply choose not to. But your feet keep moving and Chan's feel cemented to the ground.

"That's close enough!" He calls.

Again, nothing.

Your toes hang over the edge now, hands in your jacket pockets. Raging waves slam against the cliff, reaching up for you. You close your eyes and point your nose to the sky.

Wind rushes around Chan. His shoes slip on the slick rocks below as instinct takes charge of his momentum while his brain remains frozen in panic. His lungs refuse to work until his arm can hook around your torso. Yanking you back with such a force it throws the both of you off balance. It isn't until his back meets solid rock that he finally gasps in a sputtering breath. The dull throbbing is instant, but the full weight of you atop his chest is comforting.

Chan desperately scrambles to collect you in his arms. Pulling your back against his chest so that he can curl around you like a protective barrier from the world.

"I wasn't going to jump." You whisper. But he feels no comfort from your empty words.

"Please don't make me lose you twice." He pleads like a child, rocking you in his grasp. The salty spray from the ocean mixes with his tears until he can't tell what is what. Right now, the only thing he's certain of is the one in his grasp. The feeling of you in his arms, safe, and he doesn't want to ever lose that. Call it selfish if you must. Lee Chan will wear that title proudly.

There's a rush of déjà vu as you crumble, muttering Seungkwan's name between wretched sobs, nails deep in his forearms. Sobbing about how you miss him, how unfair it is, everything you've been holding in since. Chan holds you tighter. Scared you'll slip away like the tide. Like Seungkwan did. Plunged into cold, thrashing darkness.

He prays to whatever merciful forces have forsaken him to please not do the same to you.

It's a silent trip back to the townhouse and you all but collapse from exhaustion the second you're through the door. Dragging yourself over to the couch and immediately curling into a ball. Chan takes the liberty of lighting the fire before sitting down beside you. He opens his arms, and to his surprise, you accept, letting your head fall into his lap. His arm securely drapes over your torso, though you're quick to cradle his hand. Hugging it to your chest so that his palm can feel the rhythmic thumping of your heart.

Chan lets out a long-held sigh, counting each beat like a lullaby. Then focuses on the rise and fall of your chest. Letting the steady swells ease the adrenaline from his system.

For a second, life is okay. Happy, even. Like how it was back before the world ended. Before he broke your heart. When he didn't care about anything except you and passing chemistry.

"I'm scared to lose you." When you say it, it feels like all the oxygen has been sucked out of the room. "I always thought maybe, because we'd made it this far, that meant we were somehow immune. That the worst was over for us."

You pause to take a deep breath. But Chan doesn't push, simply thankful you've finally decided to let him shoulder the weight you carry.

"But if Seungkwan can die, that means you can too. Then who do I have?"

"I'd never leave–"

"You can't promise that," you drop to a whisper. Compensating for the waver in your voice. And you're right, he can't. Not in a world as cruel as this.

But he wants to.

"I don't believe in this world anymore. Not after what it did to him."

"Can you believe in me?"

Your answer doesn't come in the verbal form. Nor does it come quickly, which makes Chan think he's officially lost you. But then your fingers thread with his, squeezing in a way that he can only describe as feeling like pure hope.

Chan can't remember when the turning point was. All he knows is that today, months after the ocean, life feels peaceful once more. The Spring breeze is gentle against his skin as he lays in the soft grass with your head on his stomach. Surrounded by the aroma of the newly bloomed tulips that far outshine the rest of the garden.

He doesn't have as nearly green of a thumb as Seungkwan did, but he's proud. The garden is lush, green, and full of life. A little chaotic, but beautiful nonetheless.

Chan had even managed to revive the hydrangeas Seungkwan was so fond of.

You point to clouds with upturned lips, remarking on their resemblance to various animals. It's not the first time he's been lucky enough to catch you smiling in the subsequent months. But he knows to cherish each one more than he once did.

There's still a chill to the spring air and Chan tugs at his sleeves. Ignoring the incessant urge to animalistically claw at his arm. At the itch so deep under his skin, it feels like it's in the bone.

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