Y/n moved through the skeletal remains of a convenience store, feet careful on the broken glass. The air smelled of damp rot and something fouler beneath. Every shadow held a threat.

A can of beans. That's what survival had boiled down to. Finding one more can of beans in the ruins of a civilization that used to worry about celebrity gossip and what to have for dinner.

A crash from the alley outside. Not the random clatter of decay. This was deliberate. Heavy. Followed by a low, guttural moan that wasn't human.

Through the grimy, cracked window, two figures fought back-to-back against a shambling horde. One had spiky red hair and moved with solid, brutal efficiency. The other—blond hair plastered to his forehead with rain and sweat, face set in a furious snarl—was a ghost.

And stopped.