January 26th, 2XXX.
A series of major events struck humanity.
Among them, one stood above all: the Third World War.
It wiped out every trace of progress and flooded the world with nuclear radiation, altering the DNA of all living things—plants, animals, and humans alike.
And with it, a disease once confined to science fiction became a terrifying truth.
Yes… the zombie plague.
Half of the world's population died in the war.
Of the survivors, 90% turned into mindless monsters.
Nature reclaimed the cities—grass sprouting through cracked roads, trees growing inside hollow skyscrapers. The world fell into ruin.
Somewhere in the wreckage of Russia, an eighteen-year-old boy wandered.
He was built stronger than most, with a hardened expression, a short untamed beard, and eyes dulled by exhaustion. He hadn't cared for himself in weeks.
While scavenging for supplies, he muttered to himself:
> "I'm so tired of this... Alone, hungry, scared.
Why did I survive?
Why didn't I just die like the others?
Sometimes survival feels like punishment… like something you're forced to endure."
He kicked at the ground, frustration in every movement.
Yet his eyes… they held only loneliness.
Suddenly—
The snap of a branch behind him.
He froze.
> "Zombies? But… they don't usually move in the morning…"
He pulled out his pistol, hands trembling, sweat breaking across his face.
His legs weakened beneath him. The sound drew closer. Closer still—
Until, from behind the trees, stepped a girl.
She was about his age.
Blonde hair, striking blue eyes, and a face made thinner by hunger.
Even so, there was still beauty there—like a flower growing in a battlefield.
She held a worn baseball bat.
Both of them stood still.
Eyes locked.
Weapons raised.
No one moved. No one spoke.
Then, slowly, the boy lowered his gun. He gave a slight bow, a silent message: "I'm not your enemy."
After a moment, the girl lowered her bat—but her eyes stayed sharp with caution.
The boy spoke:
> "Wild. Eighteen."
Her voice was soft, worn down by solitude and starvation:
> "Lina. Same age…"
They stared at one another. Quiet.
Then, from his coat, Wild pulled out a small chocolate bar and handed it to her in silence.
She took it without a word.
And when he turned to walk away, she followed.
They didn't speak, but both felt something stir in their chests.
Fear… yes.
But also the smallest flicker of warmth. Of humanity.
For the first time in a long time, they weren't alone.
They arrived at his shelter.
He sat and lit a fire.
She sat nearby—but kept her distance, hugging her knees to her chest like a frightened animal.
Wild noticed.
He understood.
A girl, alone in a world like this, had every reason to be afraid.
He took out a small knife and handed it to her.
> "Don't worry. I won't touch you," he said, his voice steady, yet kind.
"Take this. If I do anything to hurt you… stab me.
Maybe it'll help you feel safer.
I just want you to be at ease."
She looked at him, surprised… and a little calmer.
Hesitating for a moment, she took the knife. But she didn't move away.
She said quietly:
> "Someone tried once…
He would've succeeded if the infected hadn't torn him apart first.
I'm not saying you're like that. You seem… decent.
But I can't trust people anymore."
He nodded with understanding.
> "That's fair.
Here. Eat this."
He handed her a plate of food. She accepted and ate in silence.
Night fell.
He offered her the broken, dusty bed.
He took the far end of the tent and sat quietly beside a candle and a tattered book.
She lay curled beneath the covers but left a small gap to watch him.
What she saw made her skin crawl.
Wild was… burning his fingers in the flame.
One by one.
No sound.
No expression.
Just pain, willingly endured.
She didn't understand.
She couldn't sleep.
But eventually… her body gave in.
At dawn, she woke suddenly.
Fear rushed into her chest.
She checked herself in panic—nothing had happened.
She looked outside—
He was fighting off a pair of slow-moving zombies.
His hands were wrapped in clean white bandages.
Two hours passed.
He came back to the shelter and resumed cooking.
She sat near him again, still silent.
But then, the question escaped her lips before she could stop it:
> "Why… were you burning your fingers last night?"
She regretted asking.
But his answer came with calm, almost sadness:
> "The devil was whispering to me," he said.
"Telling me things… about you.
About your body.
About how easy it would be."
He paused, stirring the pot.
> "So I burned myself.
To distract my mind.
To remind myself that if I ever laid a hand on you…
I'd become just another monster."
She stared at him.
Conflicted.
Afraid.
But deep inside… a part of her felt relief. Gratitude.
Because in that moment, she knew—
He didn't hurt her.
He chose pain over cruelty.
And that meant something.
For the first time in months…
she didn't feel completely alone.