Chapter Text
The hallway smelled faintly of mildew, though Harua had stopped noticing weeks ago. The carpet, once plush in the way cheap places tried to imitate luxury, was stiff with old stains and dust. He padded down it barefoot, toothbrush hanging from his mouth, a bottle of water in hand. Each squeeze sent another trickle of precious water over the bristles, foam dripping onto the floor he never planned to clean. He spat into an empty beer can sitting by the door. Hygiene, these days, was a negotiation.
His axe leaned against the peeling wallpaper like a roommate. He checked it the way others might check their phone—casual, habitual, but with the knowledge that forgetting could get him killed. The blade caught the weak light of the hallway lamp, a half-burnt bulb that hummed like an insect. He ran his thumb across the edge, just enough to feel the bite. Still sharp. Still ready. He set it back down with care, as if it might notice.
In the lobby, the pink bunny waited. It was slumped in one of the velvet chairs, head tilted sideways as if exhausted by its own cuteness. Its button eye dangled by a thread. Harua eyed it while he brushed his tongue, spitting again before muttering, “Don’t look at me like that. At least I try to keep my breath fresh.”
The bunny said nothing, of course. That was the problem and the comfort both.
He capped the water bottle and carefully set it on the reception desk, next to the spread he’d been working on. A wall calendar torn from some gas station rack had been pinned above the desk with a steak knife. Dates were scrawled over with black marker, notes jammed into the margins. He took the pen from his pocket and marked off today with a deliberate slash. One more day lived. One less to survive.
Beneath the calendar sat a piece of notebook paper, creased and greasy from handling. The shopping list. It was more of a wish list, really. Batteries. Rice. A new pair of socks. Canned peaches, if luck was feeling generous. He added “lighter fluid” in the corner, the letters pressed hard enough to almost tear the page. His handwriting had grown meaner over the months, all angles and scratches.
He leaned back in the chair behind the reception desk, listening to the silence. Outside, the world might as well have been asleep. The silence of a city without traffic was something he still hadn’t adjusted to. No muffled laughter through the walls. No elevator chime. Just the drip of some unseen leak, the faint stirrings of whatever wind dared slip through broken windows.
“Alright,” Harua muttered, glancing at the plush again. “That’s the plan. You, me, the axe, and aisle three.”
The bunny, predictably, didn’t disagree.
For a moment, his eyes lingered on the lobby itself. The chandelier overhead was missing half its crystals, strands hanging down like veins. The couches sagged, upholstery splitting at the seams. A stack of abandoned suitcases stood by the elevator—left behind in someone else’s hurry to escape. He thought about opening them, but that could wait.
He picked up the axe and gave it a lazy swing through the air. The weight settled comfortably in his palm. A ritual, really. Brush teeth. Check axe. Mark the day. Make the list. Pretend there was still a pattern to things.
The truth—one he’d never say out loud, even to a bunny—was that without the routine, he wasn’t sure he’d remember what being alive felt like.
The morning light outside was the pale kind, the sort that washed everything in gray instead of gold. The hotel’s sliding doors had long since broken, so Harua shouldered one open with a grunt, axe in hand, shopping list folded in his pocket.
The street outside the hotel was still damp from last night’s rain, puddles slicking the cracked asphalt. Plastic bags fluttered across the gutters like half-dead birds. A rusted vending machine leaned against the wall, glass spiderwebbed but still displaying faded bottles of soda no one would ever drink again.
Harua kept his pace steady, boots scuffing the edge of the curb. The air smelled of wet concrete, old exhaust, and the faint, sour tang that never seemed to leave—like rot baked into the bones of the city. Above him, signs dangled on broken wires, kanji peeling, hearts and neon swirls dangling lifeless in the daylight. He remembered when the strip had been loud, full of couples sneaking through doors that promised romance by the hour. Now it was quiet. Too quiet, most days.
That was when he saw it.
A cat—if you could still call something that thin a cat—perched on the cracked curb across the street. Its fur was patchy, a dull tabby coat that stuck out in ragged clumps, and its tail lashed the air as if to warn him off. The creature’s ribs shone under its skin like pale bars of a cage.
Harua froze, then crouched slowly, lowering the axe to the ground so the movement didn’t look like a threat. His knees popped as he sank onto his haunches. “Hey,” he said quietly, coaxing. “You hungry?”
From his jacket pocket, he dug out the heel of stale bread he’d been hoarding—not much of an offering, but it was what he had. He tore it into smaller pieces, scattering them on the asphalt between them, and held one chunk out in his palm. He kept still, breathing shallow, the way he would if he were waiting on prey.
Minutes dragged. The city around them stayed silent, as if it was holding its breath along with him. The cat sniffed the air once, then twice, its body coiling low to the ground.
For half a second, Harua thought it might come closer. He pictured the warmth of fur against his hand, the faint weight of another living thing choosing to trust him.
Then the cat bolted. A blur of bones and tail disappearing between two burned-out cars, gone so fast it might have been imagined. The bread crumbs lay abandoned on the road, looking pathetic in their stillness.
Harua exhaled through his nose, straightening with a grunt. He dusted off his palms, muttering, “Fine. Screw you too.”
He left the bread where it was. Maybe the cat would come back. Maybe something else would. Either way, it wasn’t his problem anymore.
It had been a year since the first body got back up. The first whisper of movement in what was supposed to stay still. A year since the silence after the sirens, since the world folded inward on itself and began to feed on the softest parts. The living had called it infection, or curse, or punishment—whatever word best explained what they couldn’t understand. Harua no longer used any of them. To him, it was just the natural order, rewritten.
The fresh dead were the cruelest. They still remembered how to be human, if only in muscle memory. They could run. Climb. Tear through walls with the same hands they once used to hold each other. The eyes were the worst—clear as daylight, sharp with purpose, almost lucid. Hunger drove them, a heat so pure it burned out thought. They burned quick, too. A month, maybe two, before the body started to turn on itself.
By the middle months, the fight went inward. The virus stiffened the limbs, slowed the reflex, tried to make the meat last longer. Skin split where movement resisted. Flies gathered in the new seams. Teeth fell out, but the jaw stayed strong enough to crush. Each step became an argument between what the body wanted and what it could still do. Harua had seen them sway like drunks, skin darkened to the color of rust. Some still wore uniforms, or name tags, or bracelets engraved with prayers.
And then there were the last ones—the remnants. Those who had outlived the fury. By then, they no longer hunted. They simply existed, brittle and murmuring, gnawing at the edges of anything that disturbed them. Sometimes he found them sitting upright in cars, or half-buried in grass, their mouths working in slow, mechanical clicks. Not alive, not aware, just some dim instinct pulsing beneath the rot. A hunger pared down to its smallest truth.
He had learned not to fear them. What was left by then was almost tender—a body refusing to let go, long after every reason to stay had gone.
-
Harua slipped in through the side entrance, careful to tug the door shut behind him until it clicked. The air inside was thick, stale, but at least it didn’t stink of rot.
This had been his place for months now—a convenience store on the corner, windows shattered but shelves still clinging to life. He’d worked through most of the good stuff ages ago. Now it was a graveyard of snacks nobody craved even at the end of the world.
Harua paced the aisles, brushing his fingers across dusty packages. Cup ramen, torn open and spilling noodles like yellow straw. Gum packets welded together with melted sugar. A shelf full of diet shakes, labels faded but still screaming promises of better, slimmer, happier. He snorted.
“Yeah, real helpful now,” he muttered, sweeping his eyes up to the ceiling. It sagged where rainwater had leaked through. “World ended and we’re still counting calories.”
He passed the beer fridge—empty, long since raided—and crouched to check beneath it, habit more than hope. Nothing but dust bunnies. At the end of the aisle, an entire stack of candy bars leaned precariously, untouched. Harua lifted one, turned it over in his hand. The chocolate had bloomed white from age. He tossed it back onto the pile.
“Dinner of champions.”
He was about to turn away when something pricked the edge of his attention.
Something was wrong.
The gap was small, but he felt it the way a missing tooth leaves the tongue restless. A stack of cans he’d left as a marker was gone, and in the gray film on the tiles, bootprints pressed their proof. Fresher than his own. Mud flaked at the edges.
He lowered into the shadow between two collapsed shelves, spine resting against metal gone soft with rust. He waited, breath shallow.
The sound came before the sight: a door opening, then, a shuffle, uneven. Not the cautious scrape of a hunter, but the limp-stumble rhythm of someone hurt, stubbornly moving anyway.
And then he saw him.
Across the aisle, past the dangling “SALE” banner, a boy moved quietly between the shelves. Not one of the dead. Human. He was slender, wrapped in a jacket too big for him, the cuffs dragging over his hands. His dark hair lay flat against his forehead, and there was something startlingly clean about his face—soft, unscarred, almost out of place in the ruin.
Harua’s eyes narrowed. The boy walked with a limp, careful, like one leg wasn’t quite keeping pace. He reached up for a can on the top shelf, stabilizing himself with a trembling hand on the shelf below. Something about the effort was almost… innocent.
Innocent, which meant stupid.
Innocent, which meant dangerous—for him, for Harua, for anyone still alive.
Harua’s fingers twitched toward his weapon, though he didn’t draw it. Not yet. He stayed in the dark, watching, measuring.
The boy didn’t notice him. Just shifted the can into his bag and limped further down the aisle, soft as a ghost.
Harua exhaled slowly, almost soundless. His mind ticked over the rules. Don’t trust. Don’t get close. Don’t hope.
He stayed in the shadows, watching the boy move from shelf to shelf, until the sound gave him away. His elbow knocked against the wall.
The boy froze. His head snapped up, eyes darting. A moment later, the barrel of a shotgun swung into view, trained dead at the darkness where Harua stood.
Harua stepped out. Slow. Deliberate.
The boy focussed—and froze. His eyes found Harua in the half-light. The shotgun was lifted higher, clumsy, trembling, barrel wavering.
Harua didn’t move. Didn’t bother to raise the axe he held loosely in one hand. He only spoke, voice flat with certainty.
“You can barely stand,” he said. “You’re not shooting me.”
Harua shifted his weight, rising to his full height. The axe hung easy at his side, but his eyes stayed on the boy.
“Name,” he said. Not a question so much as a demand.
The gun wavered. The boy’s knuckles stayed white, but his mouth pressed into a thin line. No answer.
Harua let the silence stretch. The shelves loomed between them, dust motes turning in the shaft of light breaking through a shattered window. Finally, he huffed through his nose, somehow both amused and unimpressed.
“You planning on standing there all day, shaking at me?”
That got something. The boy lowered the shotgun a fraction, though the barrel still hovered in Harua’s direction. His voice, when it came, was hoarse, scraped thin by disuse.
“Jo.”
Harua raised an eyebrow. “Jo what?”
A beat. “Just Jo.”
The axe tilted slightly as Harua shifted it in his grip. He studied Jo the way he might study a locked door—testing for weakness, wondering if the effort to pry it open would be worth it. “What’s your deal, Jo?”
Jo shrugged, though the motion looked more like a wince. “Same as yours, I guess.”
That earned a short laugh, dry and sharp. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”
Harua turned, steps already pulling him toward the back exit. The conversation felt finished, the verdict decided. He had no use for a limping scavenger with shaky hands. He’d spent too long carving out his own survival to invite someone else’s failure into it.
But the voice stopped him.
“Wait.”
Harua paused, one hand braced against the doorframe. He didn’t look back at first. The boy’s voice was quieter now, but steady in a way the shotgun hadn’t been.
“Can I… come with you?”
The words hung heavy. Not desperate, not pleading—just heavy, because of what they meant.
Harua finally glanced over his shoulder. Jo was standing there, smaller somehow with the weapon lowered, shoulders hunched under the weight of the ask.
The instinct rose fast: say no. Clean, easy, safe. But something snagged. Maybe it was the bad leg. Maybe the stubborn way Jo had raised that shotgun even when he could barely hold it. Maybe it was the way silence would feel heavier when Harua went back to the hotel alone.
His jaw worked. For a moment, he said nothing.
“You’re not my problem,” Harua muttered at last. It was half-answer, half-denial, but it was also the closest he could get to a yes.
And Jo, wisely, didn’t push further. He just nodded once, as though he’d heard enough.
Harua sighed through his teeth and shoved the door open. “Try to keep up.”
Harua walked ahead, the sound of Jo’s uneven footsteps trailing him like an echo he hadn’t asked for. He didn’t look back. He didn’t have to. The limp, the hitch of breath, the weight of a shotgun carried too close to the chest—it told Harua everything he needed to know.
It wasn’t that Harua hated people. That was too easy, too dramatic. He just didn’t need them. He knew himself too well. Knew how fast he got attached, how sharp the ache became when that attachment was ripped away. He’d already learned the cost, and he had no interest in paying it again. Loneliness he could live with; grief he could not.
Still, he glanced sidelong at the boy—Jo. Tall, awkward in his own body, face unlined in a way that felt almost obscene in this world. His eyes were open in a way Harua had forgotten was possible. Wide, soft, almost… trusting.
Harua hated that about him instantly.
Not the look itself, exactly, but what that look implied: that someone out here could still believe in people. That someone might still see the world as something worth staying gentle for. Harua had no patience for that kind of innocence. Innocence got you killed. Innocence left you holding bodies that didn’t breathe anymore.
But Jo’s footsteps didn’t fade, didn’t falter. They followed, steady as they could, like he’d already decided he belonged here.
Harua dragged in a breath, the air tasting like rust and rain. He kept his eyes forward, voice flat when it came:
“Do whatever you want, Jo. Just don’t expect me to save you when you screw up.”
But the words felt hollow even as he said them.
The hotel looked different with someone else in it.
Jo set his bag down by the door and shrugged out of his jacket. Harua watched him do it—watched the too-long arms, the way the boy folded himself small despite being the taller of them. He crouched by his pack, careful, as though he was afraid of disturbing something.
Harua leaned against the wall, chewing the inside of his cheek. “So,” he said casually, “let’s see what you deem worth carrying around.”
Before Jo could protest, Harua was already at the bag, tugging the zipper open. He rummaged through like it was his right: cans, stale bread wrapped in cloth, packets of dried fruit that had turned rock-hard, two bottles of water half-drained.
“Really? Dried apricots?” Harua arched a brow at Jo. “What are you, eighty?”
Jo flushed, shoulders rising. “They keep,” he said quietly.
“They taste like cardboard.” Harua shoved the packet back into the bag. His hand closed around another can, this one labeled in faded print: beef stew. He shook it once, listening to the slosh. “Not bad. Guess you’re not totally useless.”
Jo’s lips pressed into a line, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he reached for the can, took it back, and set it beside a battered camping stove he must’ve carried too. With practiced movements, he flicked the lighter and coaxed a small flame to life.
The smell of warm stew filled the room slowly, alien and heavy after months of cold food. Harua sat cross-legged on the floor, watching Jo work with a detached sort of interest. He noted the way Jo stirred carefully, the way he tested the temperature against his lip before pouring half into a tin cup and holding it out.
“For you,” Jo said simply.
Harua stared at the cup, then at him. The gesture felt wrong—too normal, too human, like it belonged in the world that no longer existed. His stomach tightened with something that wasn’t quite hunger.
He took the cup, sniffed at it once, then gave a dry laugh. “You know what this looks like?” He tapped the rim. “Looks like poison. Dumb way to go, really—taken out by stew.”
Jo’s brows furrowed, his mouth twitching with the faintest hint of a smile he didn’t let through. “It’s not poison.”
“Sure.” Harua sipped anyway, the liquid hot against his tongue. He forced himself to swallow. His body wanted the food, but his mind recoiled, every instinct sharp with warning. Sharing meals meant something. Meals made bonds. And bonds got you killed.
The bunny plush slumped against the pillow in the corner, watching silently with its lopsided grin. Harua’s eyes flicked to it, then back to Jo.
He set the cup down deliberately, untouched after that one sip. “Don’t think this means anything,” he said flatly. “You should eat. I’m fine.”
But as Jo settled across from him, spoon clinking softly against the cup, Harua couldn’t shake the unease that crawled beneath his skin. Not from the food itself, but from the boy sitting in front of him.
And that, Harua knew, was dangerous.
Night stretched itself across the hotel like a shroud.
The building had a particular way of holding silence after dark, a thick stillness that even the dripping pipes seemed hesitant to disturb. Harua sat on the floor of the lobby with his back against a peeling wall, his axe balanced across his knees. He had his little ritual: cloth wrapped around his hand, bottle cap pried open with his teeth, the slow rhythmic sweep of metal being wiped down until it gleamed. He didn’t even have to look anymore. Muscle memory had taken over long ago.
The thing about rituals was that they made the nights less endless. One stroke at a time, you could convince yourself that life had shape, that it wasn’t just an unraveling thread.
Across the room, Jo mirrored him—well, in his own way. The tall bastard was hunched over his shotgun, dismantling it with a precision that suggested practice, care, maybe even reverence. His hands moved clean and steady. No wasted motions. No chatter. Just the quiet work of someone who had also learned that survival was a rhythm, not a sprint.
It was strange, Harua thought, having another body nearby while the night pressed in. He wasn’t used to silence belonging to two people.
He paused mid-wipe, staring down at the axe blade. His reflection warped in the metal—cheeks a little hollower than last month, eyes a little heavier. Did he even recognize himself anymore? Or was he just some stranger borrowing the face of the man who used to exist here, before everything went to hell?
The thought almost settled into him, heavy and unwelcome, when the sound broke.
Soft at first, then louder: a shuffle. A drag. Skin and bone against tile.
Harua froze, head tilted. He knew that sound. Too slow to be human, too clumsy to be anything else.
The figure lurched into the lobby, half its face peeled down in ribbons, jaw slack. A corpse. Nothing special—just another sack of ruined meat the world coughed up on repeat.
But Harua’s pulse quickened all the same.
He moved without hesitation, rising fluid and sharp, axe in hand. The world narrowed in on him and the creature—the stink of rot, the wet click of its jaw, the grotesque sway of its broken limbs. He didn’t bother with words this time, not until the blade sang through the air.
It buried itself in the skull with a meaty crack, the weight of it vibrating through his arms. The body collapsed in a boneless heap, twitching once before the stillness reclaimed it.
Harua yanked the axe free, shaking gore from the blade, and turned back toward Jo. The guy hadn’t moved. Not a damn inch.
“Well,” Harua said, his breath steadying into something almost casual, “nice reaction time, champ. Blink and it would’ve gotten a love bite in.”
Jo just looked at him, expression unreadable. Then, to Harua’s surprise, he held out a hand.
“What?” Harua asked, narrowing his eyes.
Jo gestured, palm open. Silent. Waiting.
Suspicious, Harua handed over the axe.
Jo crouched, wiping the blood and brain matter from the blade with the same calm, methodical care he’d given his shotgun. Not a flicker of disgust, not a word of complaint. Just quiet work, steel on cloth, until the edge gleamed again.
Harua watched him, arms crossed, feeling something knot tight and strange in his chest. Trust wasn’t a thing you gave out here—not for free, not without a fight. And yet, somehow, he’d let this stranger sit in his silence, touch his weapon, share his night.
Harua dragged the corpse by the ankles, the thing’s dead weight snagging and bumping along carpet, leaving a faint smear that caught the dim light like oil. He didn’t look at the face. His jaw locked, his shoulders burning with the effort, as if the body were heavier than bone and muscle, as if it carried every bad decision he’d made wound tight inside it.
The doors shrieked when he shoved them open, metal grinding like an accusation. Lukewarm air slammed against him, clean and cruel. It made the rot stink sharper, almost sweet in its own rancid way, and his stomach clenched. He hauled the corpse far enough into the street that he could pretend it wasn’t his problem anymore, then let it collapse into the dusted pavement with a hollow thump.
He stood there, hands trembling.
What the hell am I doing?
The question repeated itself like a hammer inside his skull, louder, harder, until he wanted to split his head open just to shut it up. He turned toward the door, then spun back, and before he could think better of it, his fist cracked against the brick wall. Knuckles split, pain flared hot, a small bright star bursting in the dark. He leaned into it, relished it. Pain was honest. Pain didn’t lie the way hope did.
He dropped his head against the cold bricks, the stone biting his skin, anchoring him. His breath came quick, sharp, teeth gritted as if that could cage it. Anger was easier to wear than fear. Anger was a mask, and he knew how to keep it on. But beneath it, the buzzing static crawled over his ribs, itching for release, telling him he’d ruined everything again.
He’d been alone, and he was good at it. Efficient. Clean. Predictable. And then—him. The tall shadow with quiet eyes and a voice he barely used. Jo. With his careful hands, his shotgun he didn’t even bother firing. A ghost trailing behind Harua’s shoulder, too quiet, too still. Dead weight. Dead man walking.
Harua clenched his bloodied hand, pressed it to his thigh, tried to steady himself. But the thought wouldn’t stop: Why did I let him in?
His throat tightened like someone had slipped a rope around it. He wanted to spit the answer, to laugh at himself, to curse the sky, but nothing came out except a whisper ground raw against the wall: “Stupid. Stupid, stupid—”
He almost sounded like he was begging.
For a moment he thought about walking. Just leaving. Ghosting out of this mess before it swallowed him whole. But he stayed, forehead pressed to brick, until his pulse slowed from a sprint to a steady march. Until his breath no longer sawed at his chest. Until the mask slipped back into place.
Then, with the same practiced efficiency he used for everything else, he pushed himself upright, shoved the doors open again, and stepped back inside. As though nothing had happened at all.
-
Two weeks.
Two weeks of sharing space, sharing meals, sharing silence. Harua didn’t like the phrase sharing space, but he couldn’t deny the truth. Jo was there. Always there. Limping after him, careful, silent, but present. Not intrusive. Not demanding. Just… there.
They were out on a scavenging run, cutting through the husk of an old corner store. Shelves were half-collapsed, walls blistered with water damage, everything stinking faintly of mold and rot.
Harua moved with his usual rhythm—fast, efficient, knife through butter. Grabbed batteries, tucked away lighters, ripped open a box of stale protein bars without breaking stride. He had a sixth sense for spotting what was still good among the wreckage, and he wasted no time weighing options. The trick was pace: get in, sweep, get out.
Jo was different. He moved slow, deliberate, like a surveyor cataloging every inch of the ruin. His big hands turned over tins to check expiration dates, tested the sturdiness of ropes, picked up tools that Harua would’ve passed over as junk.
At first, Harua ignored it. Until Jo reached for a box of powdered milk.
“Really?” Harua asked, voice sharp as he tore open another crate. “That’s what you’re wasting bag space on? We’re not exactly a growing family of four.”
Jo glanced up, calm as ever. “It lasts. Doesn’t spoil. Easy nutrients.”
“Protein bars are faster,” Harua shot back, waving one like proof. “Unwrap, chew, done. You wanna sit here playing house with a mixing bowl?”
Jo set the box down slowly, deliberately, he wasn’t going to rise to the bait. But his voice carried, low and steady: “Not everything’s about fast.”
Harua scoffed. “No, you’re right. Sometimes it’s about dying because you couldn’t run fast enough with your backpack full of grandma groceries.”
Jo gave him a look. It wasn’t angry, exactly—more like he was sizing Harua up, weighing him on some scale Harua couldn’t see. Then, quiet: “Fast keeps you alive today. Planning keeps you alive tomorrow.”
The words hung between them, sharp as glass.
Harua hated that something in him twitched at those words, as though they had weight he didn’t want to admit. He shoved it down quick, masking it with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes.
“You always this fun at parties?” he muttered, cramming another lighter into his pack.
Jo huffed, the faintest ghost of a laugh, almost like he couldn’t help it. Then he went back to rummaging.
The air between them stayed taut, stretched thin as wire. Harua kept up his momentum, darting from aisle to aisle, pulling what he needed in a blur of motion. But his eyes flicked back, again and again, to the figure moving slower, steadier, building a different kind of collection. Rope. Nails. A box of water purification tablets. Duct tape.
Stuff Harua would’ve overlooked. Stuff that, if he was being honest, probably did matter.
That honesty was the part that bothered him.
He yanked a pack of batteries from the shelf, shoving them into his bag with more force than necessary. “You know, I liked it better when it was just me,” he muttered under his breath.
Jo didn’t turn. But he heard. “Then why’d you let me stay?”
The question stopped Harua cold. His mouth opened, but the retort didn’t come. He stared at the boy’s back, the steady curve of his shoulders as he sifted through a pile of tools.
Harua forced a smirk, even if it felt empty. “Must’ve hit my head that day.”
Jo straightened, holding up a crowbar. His voice was almost wry as he said, “Lucky for me, then.”
Harua felt that strange knot tighten in his chest again. He hated it. Hated how hard it was becoming to read Jo, and how much it mattered that he couldn’t.
-
The calendar in the lobby had already crept into November. Harua had slashed a sharp X through the second that morning, grumbling about how fast the weeks were getting away from him. Winter was inching closer.
They were holed up in one of the bigger rooms that night—an old suite, the kind with faux-satin wallpaper and a mirrored ceiling that still made Harua snort every time he looked up. A coffee table sat between them, scuffed to hell but still holding its shape. On it lay their prize of the evening: a battered deck of cards, unearthed from the bottom drawer of a dresser Jo had pried open.
Harua spread them out with a flourish, the corners bent and edges sticky with age. “Gentleman’s entertainment,” he declared, flicking one across the table like he was dealing blackjack. “Or whatever’s left of it.”
Jo sat cross-legged on the carpet, watching him with his usual unreadable grin.
“So here’s the rules,” Harua began, arranging the cards in uneven stacks. “You draw two. If they match, you win. If they don’t match, you still win, but I get to insult you. Unless it’s a face card, in which case I have to tell you a terrible truth about life. Unless it’s a joker, then I have to eat something out of your bag.”
Jo blinked once. “And if it’s an ace?”
Harua grinned sharp. “Then you have to shut up for five minutes.”
Jo tilted his head, like he was actually considering this. “So… you win either way.”
“Exactly.” Harua leaned back, smug. “That’s how you know it’s a good game.”
The first few rounds passed with Harua inventing rules as he went. If the cards added up to ten, Jo had to swap seats with him. If they were red suits, Harua had to hum a song until Jo guessed it (he never guessed, and Harua never finished the song). If Jo pulled a seven, Harua accused him of cheating.
Through it all, Jo played along—calm, unhurried, like he had nothing better to do than indulge Harua’s nonsense. He barely spoke, but his silences weren’t heavy like they used to be. They were… lighter, like he was quietly entertained.
At one point, Jo flipped over two mismatched cards, and Harua slapped the table. “Wrong. You lose. Penalty’s ten push-ups.”
Jo raised a brow. “You said penalties were only for face cards.”
“Amendment to the rules.” Harua crossed his arms. “Push-ups. Now.”
Jo stared at him for a beat, then, without a word, dropped into a questionable push-up form and started counting under his breath.
Harua sat there, slack-jawed, before bursting into laughter—sharp, sudden, real. It tore out of him before he could stop it, echoing off the gaudy mirrored ceiling. Jo paused mid-push-up to glance up at him, but didn’t comment, just kept going.
The sound caught Harua off guard. He hadn’t laughed like that—really laughed—in months. Maybe years. It felt alien in his chest, jagged and warm all at once. For a second he let it ride, let it shake loose the cold that had been burrowed into him since the world went to hell.
Then, just as quick, he snapped it shut.
“Don’t get used to that,” he muttered, scowling down at the cards. “It wasn’t funny. You just looked stupid.”
Jo pushed himself up to sit back down, breathing evenly, not a hair out of place. He collected the cards neatly, set them back in a pile, and said simply, “Sure.”
The calmness of it made Harua glare. “I mean it.”
“Mm.” Jo drew the next card, sliding it across the table. His expression didn’t shift, but there was a faint spark in his eyes, almost like he was holding the laugh for the both of them.
And somehow, that made Harua want to laugh again.
-
The wind had grown sharper in the past few days, tugging at their jackets, biting at the skin peeking from gloves and collars. Winter was creeping closer, a slow ache in the bones of the city, and Harua knew it wouldn’t wait for them to be ready.
They moved down the cracked sidewalk, boots crunching over frozen puddles. The sky was gray and flat, the sun a dim smudge that did little to warm anything. Harua’s pack felt heavier today, weighed down with rations and whatever they could scavenge from the last run. Jo walked beside him, shotgun slung over one shoulder, jacket hanging loose, every motion careful, measured.
“I’ve been thinking,” Jo began, voice soft, tentative, almost like he was testing the air. “Back at home, winter… it was different.”
Harua raised a brow but didn’t respond. Encouragement was not his style.
Jo shrugged, glancing at him briefly. “We had a farm. Not much, just… crops and animals. But whenever winter came, everything slowed. The animals huddled in the barn, we had to make sure there was enough feed, firewood, water. It was hard, but… predictable.” He ran a hand along the strap of his bag. “You could plan. You could see what was coming.”
Harua snorted. “Sounds riveting. I’m on the edge of my seat here.”
Jo tilted his head, lips twitching with a small smile. “I didn’t mean to bore you.”
“Not bored,” Harua said, voice flat but his eyes flicked over to him, scanning, watching. “It's just… not relevant. You’re not on a farm anymore. You can’t plan for this city like it’s a barn. There are no schedules. No seasons. Just the mess we walk through every day.”
Jo nodded, though the edge of his lips hinted at a smirk. “I know. I was just… saying. You don’t have to act like you're not interested in me.”
Harua’s eyes darted back to the street, then to Jo, careful, assessing. Beneath the sarcasm, beneath the dismissal, he was listening. Of course he was. Jo’s past—small, fleeting stories like this—revealed cracks in the boy, patterns he could read. Predictability. Caution. Hesitation. Strength.
“Fine,” Harua said finally, tugging his jacket tighter. “I’ll let you talk about your boring farm life. But don’t expect me to get sentimental. I don’t do farm nostalgia.”
Jo laughed quietly, a soft sound that blended with the whistle of the wind. “Fair enough. I didn’t expect you to.”
They ducked into an abandoned clothing store, the door groaning on rusted hinges. The aisles were bare, mannequins missing limbs, but piles of jackets, sweaters, and scarves remained—discarded, overlooked. Jo moved to a stack of thermal shirts, flipping them with a practiced hand. Harua wandered down a different aisle, tossing aside anything that smelled too sour or looked threadbare.
“Here,” Jo said, holding up a dark wool sweater. “Might be worth it. Thick. Should last a while.”
Harua glanced at it, made a face, then tossed it back. “It’ll itch your skin off before it warms you. We need practical and comfortable, not granny's latest hit.”
Jo’s eyes flicked up at him, just a fraction of a second, noting the brief pause before Harua moved on. He didn’t comment, just continued rifling through the clothing with a quiet focus, letting Harua’s sarcasm roll off like water.
The two of them worked in companionable silence for a while, the sound of shuffling fabric and clinking hangers the only interruption to the cold wind outside.
And all the while, Harua listened. Even when he dismissed Jo’s words, even when he rolled his eyes at the mention of a past life, even when he muttered something sarcastic under his breath—he was absorbing it, noting the rhythm of Jo’s speech, the subtleties of his body, the way he carried himself in this ruined world.
Harua tugged a dark, thick sweater from the pile and stepped into the changing room, the flimsy curtain barely shielding him from the rest of the store. The fluorescent light flickered above, buzzing faintly, but inside the little square of space, the world outside—the cold, the ruined streets, the constant threat—seemed to pause.
He peeled off his jacket, shrugged out of the layers he’d been living in for weeks, and slid the new sweater over his head. The fabric was soft, warm, comforting in a way he hadn’t felt in months. Thick enough to hold heat, light enough to move freely. It settled against his skin, a small luxury, a brief shield against the hollow ache in his chest.
Harua wrapped his arms around himself, crouched slightly on the cold floor, and let himself sink into the sensation. For a moment, he just held himself. Safe. Warm. Quiet. The sweater smelled faintly of fabric softener long gone, but it didn’t matter. The softness was enough.
He rested his forehead against his arms, feeling the weight of exhaustion and loneliness lift just enough to let his body remember what it felt like to be unguarded. His eyes closed, and he stayed like that for a heartbeat—or maybe several—wrapped up in the simple, fleeting comfort of wool and cloth.
Outside, Jo shuffled through racks of coats and scarves, oblivious to the small, unguarded moment happening just a few feet away. Harua’s chest tightened slightly at the thought—he hated how easily the boy could affect him, how his presence made even the tiniest comfort feel dangerously sweet.
Finally, Harua straightened, tugged the sweater down properly, and adjusted the sleeves. He didn’t linger. He stepped out of the changing room, shrugging on a new coat, keeping his expression carefully neutral. But inside, the warmth lingered. A quiet rebellion against the cold, against the loneliness, against the world that had taken everything else from him.
And for once, just for a moment, Harua let himself feel… okay.
The wind had softened by the time they returned to the hotel, carrying the faint smell of petrichor, the streets quieter now, almost intimate. Harua’s new coat hugged his frame, sleeves brushing just past his wrists, and he walked with a little less stiffness than usual. Jo fell into step beside him, bag slung over his shoulder, the shotgun resting lightly in his grip.
They rounded the corner near the hotel, and Harua froze mid-step.
“...Oh, for the love of—”
The cat.
It crouched on the threshold of the broken door, tail flicking with detached judgment, the same mottled fur, one ear bent like a misfolded ribbon. Its green eyes fixed on Harua with the kind of disdain only a creature who had seen too many humans and survived could manage.
Jo knelt down instinctively, setting his bag aside. “We should feed it,” he said, already digging into his pack for a scrap of jerky.
Harua’s eyes narrowed. “You’re gonna feed that ungrateful bastard? He’ll just run away. Trust me, I would know.”
Jo shrugged, holding out the dried meat anyway. “It's worth the risk.”
Jo crouched fully, extending the offering slowly. The cat sniffed once, ears twitching, and then—without hesitation—took it from his hand. It rubbed against Jo’s side, purring softly, eyes half-closed in contentment. Jo reached out, fingers brushing the cat’s fur, and it pressed against him, curling up briefly like it had found its rightful human.
Harua blinked, mouth slightly open, incredulous. “What the actual hell?”
Jo looked up at him, a sly grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “Cats trust kind people.”
Harua’s lips pressed into a thin line, expression flat, but his eyes glimmered with betrayal, disbelief, and a faint, begrudging amusement. He let out a dry, sarcastic sigh. “I don't think this cat is in the position to be picky about who feeds him, the betrayal of it all."
Jo laughed quietly, leaning back on his heels, still petting the cat, which purred louder in approval. “It’s not about betrayal, Harua. It’s about recognizing, and appreciating, kindness when you see it. Something you might want to try sometime.”
Harua stared at him, dumbfounded.
The creature finally padded away, tail high, leaving Jo and Harua in the dim light. Harua shook his head, muttering under his breath: “Yeah, yeah, cats, trust, kind people… whatever. I’m officially obsolete.”
Jo tilted his head, smirk still in place. “You’re not obsolete. Just grumpy.”
Harua groaned, but a corner of his mouth twitched anyway.
-
The hotel lobby was silent, lit only by the thin glow of the moon filtering through cracked windows. Harua sat slouched against the counter, axe propped beside him, eyes scanning the darkened streets outside. Night had fallen hard, cold and empty, the kind of cold that gnawed at marrow.
He’d been on watch for hours, ears tuned to the faintest shuffle of distant corpses. It was boring, predictable—until it wasn’t.
A scream tore through the stillness, sharp and raw, echoing down the stairwell.
Harua bolted upright, heart hammering—not from fear, but instinct. He grabbed his axe, running up the stairs two at a time, senses screaming for danger.
He burst into the room where Jo was sleeping, shotgun propped nearby, body curled up under a tangle of blankets. The boy’s face was contorted, eyes tight shut, lips quivering. His hands gripped the sheets as if he was holding on for life.
Harua froze for a heartbeat, then exhaled slowly, realizing: no creatures, no attackers. Just Jo. Just a nightmare.
“Goddammit,” Harua muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair. He crouched down beside the bed, watching Jo’s chest rise and fall unevenly. The boy’s trembling hand brushed against the blanket, and Harua’s instincts—reluctant, stubborn, but undeniable—kicked in.
“Hey,” he said quietly, voice low and rough, unsure of the etiquette of comforting someone. “Wake up. It’s—uh… it’s just a dream.”
Jo’s eyes fluttered open, dark brown and wide with lingering fear. He blinked, disoriented, then exhaled shakily. “Harua…”
Harua grunted, gesturing vaguely at the bed. “Yeah, yeah. It’s over. Nothing got you. Nothing’s going to get you.” His hand hovered awkwardly, unsure if he should even touch Jo. In the end, he just rested it on the blanket, a half-hearted, functional gesture of comfort.
Jo’s lips twitched into a faint smile, gratitude soft and genuine. “Thanks,” he murmured, voice still trembling.
Harua shrugged, trying to hide the sudden warmth rising in his chest. “Don’t get used to it. I’m not… good at this.” He shifted, awkward, uncomfortable, muttering, “But… you know… don’t die. That’s the most important part.”
Jo chuckled softly, a small sound, fragile but steady. “I’ll try. You… do a fine job at comforting, though. Really.”
Harua rolled his eyes. “Fine. Sure. Don’t tell anyone about this.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes, the shadows stretching across the room, the hum of the broken city outside, the weight of the apocalypse pressing in—but for a moment, just a fleeting moment, it felt safe.
Harua stayed there longer than he expected, letting Jo settle back under the blankets, letting the rhythm of the boy’s breathing calm him too. He didn’t say anything else, didn’t overdo it. That wasn’t Harua’s style. But the warmth lingered, stubborn, like a faint ember refusing to die in the cold dark of the hotel.
And for once, he didn’t mind it.
-
The first snow came overnight, silent as a thief.
When Harua cracked the lobby door open the next morning, the world had been remade. Streets were dusted in white, thin layers clinging to broken sidewalks, sagging rooftops, the rusting cars that had long since gone nowhere. Every jagged corner of the city looked softened, blurred, as though someone had taken sandpaper to the sharpness of the ruins.
It should’ve felt special. Instead, Harua grimaced, shouldering the door shut again before the draft could swallow the last of the building’s warmth. He rubbed his arms through his jacket, muttering.
“Great. Perfect. Just what we needed. Walking through slush up to our ankles, everything frozen shut, scavenging turning into a goddamn polar expedition.” He kicked at the floor like it was at fault. “You ever tried swinging an axe with frostbite? Spoiler—doesn’t work.”
Jo was by the window, standing with one hand braced against the frame. He hadn’t said a word yet, just watching the flakes still drifting down outside. The light was different this morning—paler, slower, caught in the whirling snow. It touched his face in a way Harua noticed before he could stop himself.
Finally, Jo spoke. His voice was low, almost reverent. “It’s beautiful, though.”
The words sat between them like a warm breath in the cold air.
Harua froze mid-grumble, eyes flicking to him. For a moment he didn’t know what to say. Beautiful? Snow meant numb fingers and slower runs, meant danger hiding quieter under white sheets. Beautiful wasn’t the word he’d ever choose.
He scoffed, sharp and quick, trying to cut through whatever strange quiet Jo had brought into the room. “Yeah. Real beautiful. Hypothermia's just stunning this time of year. Maybe I’ll take you out there barefoot so you can really appreciate it.”
Jo’s mouth curved, not quite a smile, not quite not. He didn’t argue, didn’t look away from the window. Just let the silence return, heavier than before.
Harua busied himself with checking the axe again, pretending he had more to say, but the thought wouldn’t leave him. It’s beautiful, though. The words stuck like burrs, catching every time his mind tried to move past them. He caught himself glancing toward the window, toward the snow that kept falling, falling, falling, softening the world into something almost gentle.
He shook his head, muttered under his breath. “Beautiful. Tch.” But when he lay awake that night, staring at the ceiling, it was the snow he saw behind his eyelids—white, slow, quiet—and the sound of Jo’s voice saying it like it was the only truth left.
-
The cold began to loosen its hold. It didn’t vanish all at once, but it retreated in small, patient gestures. The frost that had clung to the windows of the old hotel melted into threads of water, tracing slow paths down the glass. The air thinned. The world smelled faintly of wet earth again, of something green waking up beneath the ruin.
Snowmelt gathered in the gutters, swallowing bits of paper, coins, and the occasional tooth. The streets sighed under the weight of thawing things. Even the dead seemed slower to stir, their joints stiff with cold, heads tilted toward a light they could no longer recognize.
Harua marked the days by the sound of dripping water, by the way Jo stopped huddling so close to the stove at night. They spoke less of danger and more of rationing, of where the roads might open once the ice was gone. Time was a silent, steady thing—neither cruel nor kind, only moving forward.
By the time the first moths began to appear—pale, aimless, brushing the air with dusted wings—the worst of the cold had passed. The world was still broken, but it was softening around the edges. And for a brief stretch of days, when the mornings came clear and the wind didn’t bite, it almost felt like a beginning again.
For the past two months, every day had been the same grind: scavenging, surviving, arguing, planning, second-guessing.
Their talks had all circled back to the same idea—an outline at first, then a plan, then something that felt close enough to a promise. The south coast. That was where they meant to go. Not because either of them truly believed safety waited there, but because people did what water told them to do: they followed it. Harua had gathered somewhere that survivors tended to drift toward coastlines, drawn by the illusion of open space, by the idea that the sea might still connect one ruin to another. If there was a camp, or a port, or even a single signal left, it would be there.
And here they were, hunched over the largest map they had managed to scavenge, a faint blue glow of a cracked streetlamp seeping through the broken window. Harua tapped his finger along a route he’d traced with careful deliberation, eyes sharp, mind racing.
“From here,” he said flatly, “we move south. Avoid the main streets. Tunnel under where we can. There’s an abandoned train line that’ll cut travel time in half.”
Jo leaned over, tracing the path with his finger, eyes bright. “That actually… makes sense. We’ve gone over all the alternatives. This one works.”
Harua didn’t respond. He was already flipping the map, scanning for choke points, intersections to avoid, possible horde locations. Months of analysis crammed into instinct. Every angle accounted for, every risk measured, every contingency planned.
“Wait,” Jo said suddenly, pointing to a narrow side street. “If we can clear that alley and the small shop on the corner, we can get supplies along the way. It’s small, but it’s… something.”
Harua’s lips pressed into a thin line, then curved faintly, almost imperceptibly. “Fine. I’ll give you that. But that’s all.”
Jo’s grin widened, the kind that made him look impossibly tall, impossibly hopeful, impossibly alive despite the death that stalked the city outside. “We’re really doing it,” he said quietly, almost reverently. “We actually have a goal. A real… plan.”
Harua glanced at him, expression flat but eyes flicking with... something. “Yeah. Don’t get sentimental.”
Jo didn’t seem to hear him. Instead, he stepped closer, arms lifting slowly, hesitating, then wrapping around Harua in a hug.
Harua froze, stiff as a board, pulse spiking in a way he wasn’t used to. Panic prickled at the edges of his consciousness—don’t get attached, don’t get attached, don’t get attached—but he didn’t push Jo away. Not immediately. He let himself feel the warmth, the quiet reassurance of Jo’s embrace, and for a heartbeat, the weight of the last two months—the exhaustion, the fear, the constant work—eased ever so slightly.
Jo pressed his face against Harua’s shoulder, muttering, “I’m glad… we’re doing this together.”
Harua’s fingers twitched, awkward, almost brushing against Jo’s back. He quickly straightened, stepping back just enough to release the tension but not fully pulling away. “Pack your bags,” he said, voice clipped, eyes darting away. “We’re leaving in the morning.”
Jo’s grin returned, wide and unrestrained, as he pulled back slightly, still glowing with that quiet, stubborn optimism. “Tomorrow?”
Harua shrugged, already flipping the map back toward himself, scanning for landmarks. “Tomorrow. Get used to being a nomad. We move fast. No dilly-dallying.”
Jo laughed softly, a sound like water over stone, reaching up to brush his hand along the map, marking routes and paths with careful precision.
And for the first time in months, Harua felt it—not just the calculation, the strategy, the survival—but the faint, stubborn spark of something more. Something dangerous. Something… soft. Something almost akin to hope.
He ignored it, of course. But he didn’t look away when Jo glanced at him again, eyes shining, full of hope.
Tomorrow, they would leave. Together.
-
Harua lay in the bed, wrapped in layers of blankets. The room was quiet, broken only by the faint creak of the old building settling and the distant howl of the wind outside. He stared at the ceiling, eyes tracking cracks and shadows, mind elsewhere. Sleep should have come easily. It didn’t.
Instead, his thoughts wandered back—back to the first time he had found this hotel.
He had been injured then, bleeding from a shallow but long gash across his side, body screaming in protest with every step. The streets had been chaos, bodies and death everywhere, dead things sniffing at his heels, claws scraping against concrete and brick. And yet, he had kept moving, driven by nothing but habit and spite.
The entrance of the hotel had seemed like a godsend, a hollowed-out beacon in the middle of the ruined city. He remembered the stairs—the first floor crawling with the dead. Harua had moved with practiced precision, axe in hand, gutting his way upward. Bodies fell, groans echoed, blood sprayed—but there was no hesitation. Only survival. Only the path upward.
When the coast had finally cleared, he had collapsed on a bed, his body spent, muscles trembling, heart hammering. The blankets had smelled faintly of mildew and dust, but it didn’t matter. For the first time in months, maybe ever, Harua had slept. Truly slept. Deeply. Peacefully. The kind of sleep that made your body forget pain and fear, if only for a while.
And now… he would leave it behind.
Harua pulled the blankets tighter around his shoulders, curling slightly, almost in homage to the moment when he had first surrendered to rest. The hotel had been more than walls and furniture. It had been sanctuary, a quiet place where he could be just… alive without pretense, without constant vigilance.
He would miss it.
Not the peeling wallpaper or the broken windows. Not the creaking floorboards or the shadows of past lovers that lingered in every corner. He would miss the safety, the solitude, the strange, fragile sense of peace he had carved here with his own hands.
His eyes drifted to the window, he thought of Jo, of the laughter earlier, of small warmths, and realized—that the peace of the hotel wouldn’t disappear entirely. Not with someone else beside him.
Harua exhaled slowly, letting the weight settle. Tomorrow, they would move. Tomorrow, the streets would swallow them again. But tonight, he let himself remember.
The best sleep of his life had happened here once. Maybe, just maybe, he could carry a little of that with him.
-
The morning light slanted through the broken windows, pale and weak, brushing over the lobby in thin streaks. Harua crouched by a toppled chair, flipping through the last few lines of his handwritten list, ticking off items with a faint frown. Boots? Packed. Food rations? Double-checked. Weapons? Axe sharpened, shotgun cleaned. The city outside waited.
Jo moved quietly behind him, adjusting his bag, loosening the strap of his coat. He had that familiar air of calm, the kind that made Harua want to roll his eyes and bite back a reluctant smile at the same time.
“Let’s go,” Harua said finally, voice clipped, brushing his hair back from his forehead. He was grumpier than usual, even by his standards. The sleep deprivation, the two months of constant planning, the endless tension—it all added up to a sharp edge, one that he carried even as he stepped toward the door.
Jo opened the door first, holding it for him with a faint smile. Harua followed, stepping into the cold morning, boots crunching over the pavement. He kept moving, brisk and impatient, checking the streets with every step, muttering sarcastic commentary about the state of the city, about abandoned cars, about literally anything.
“Stop it,” Jo said suddenly, voice calm but firm. Harua paused mid-step, glancing over his shoulder.
“What? I’m just… observing.”
“No,” Jo said, taking a careful step toward him. “You’re shutting me down every time I try to talk. You’re even grumpier than usual. Admit it.”
Harua grunted, brushing it off with a hand. “I’m fine. Just tired. Nothing more.”
Jo shook his head, smirk tugging at his lips. “You're allowed to be honest with me. You already miss the hotel, don’t you?”
Harua’s eyes flicked to him, narrow and sharp, lips pressing into a thin line. “I do not.”
But even as he said it, the truth sat heavy in his chest. He’d miss the quiet routines, the hollow peace of the lobby, the way he could hide in shadows and feel in control. The hotel had been more than just walls and furniture—it had been predictable, safe, almost like a small kingdom of his own making. And now, stepping back into the uncertainty of the streets, the ache of leaving pressed at him in ways he couldn’t voice.
Jo’s eyes met his, patient, soft, knowing. “You’re going to miss it. Admit it.”
Harua let out a short, sharp breath. “Maybe a little. Not enough to matter.”
Jo grinned, undeterred, and fell in step beside him. “Good. Just don’t try to tell me you didn’t enjoy it.”
Harua snorted, looking straight ahead, trying to mask the faint tug of nostalgia tightening in his chest. “Enjoy it? Hah. Of course. Loved it. Now let’s move before I change my mind about leaving.”
The city stretched ahead, gray and jagged under the pale morning sun.
“Alright,” Harua said, tossing a glance at Jo, who kept pace beside him with respectable effort, shotgun resting easy on his shoulder. “Here’s the plan. We walk. All day. Until the sun dies, or whatever that metaphorical thing is for darkness creeping in. Then—we find a store. Or a restaurant. Or some abandoned strip mall. Any place we can crash for a few hours without a pack of corpses walking in to say hello.”
Jo raised a brow. “That’s very… specific.”
Harua waved a hand, not slowing his pace. “Details matter, Jo. If you want to survive, you have to think like me. Which is a full-time job, by the way. I’m practically exhausted thinking for both of us.”
Jo chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Right. Because I’m clearly the picture of incompetence.”
“Don’t test me,” Harua said, voice low but playful. “I will out-think, out-maneuver, and out-survive you. It’s not personal. It’s just facts.”
Jo snorted. “Sure. Facts.”
Harua started pacing in little circles around a pile of broken trash cans, gesturing wildly as he continued. “And then there’s the route. We stick to side streets, alleys if possible, avoid the main thoroughfares because—duh—they’re full of debris, bodies, whatever else. And don’t even get me started on scavenging. We need to pick fast, think ahead, and—”
“Harua,” Jo interrupted gently, “breathe.”
Harua stopped, exhaling loudly, throwing his hands up. “Fine! Fine. I’m breathing. But the point stands: you follow my lead, and I won’t have to worry about your survival instincts failing dramatically.”
Jo just smiled, quiet amusement in his eyes, letting Harua carry on. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t argue, just walked beside him, steady and patient.
“And another thing,” Harua continued, warming to his rhythm, “if we come across any food, you better not be slow. I will throw you out of the store if you hesitate. And don’t even think about being sentimental. A can of beans is a can of beans—don’t stare at it like it’s some long-lost childhood treasure.”
Jo laughed softly, and Harua shot him a mock glare. “Stop. That’s distracting.”
“I can’t help it,” Jo said, eyes glinting. “You’re weirdly entertaining when you talk.”
Harua paused mid-step, blinked, and moved on.
“And another thing,” he went on, because of course he couldn’t stop, “if we find any cats—don’t feed them unless I say so. And if they run away—good. They’re idiots. And the same goes for any humans we meet. Idiots. They’re all idiots. Except—”
Jo glanced at him. “Except me?”
Harua paused. “Exactly. Except you. But that’s an exception, don’t get used to it.”
Jo shook his head, laughing softly, letting Harua continue his relentless chatter as the streets passed by.
The sun dipped low behind the skeletal cityscape, throwing long shadows across the cracked streets. By the time they found the small, abandoned convenience store, the wind bit sharper, forcing Harua to pull his coat tighter around himself.
Jo pushed the door open carefully, shotgun slung over his shoulder, eyes scanning the interior. Shelves were toppled, a few cans still clinging to their places, but the space was quiet, untouched—or at least not recently trampled by the undead. It wasn’t much, but it was shelter, and for tonight, that would have to do.
Harua dropped his pack near the counter, axe resting against the wall, and let himself breathe a little easier. “Good enough,” he muttered, running a hand over his face. The day had been long, the streets empty enough to be peaceful but tense enough to keep his guard taut.
Jo set his bag down, kneeling briefly to check the perimeter through a cracked window. “We’re safe here,” he said quietly. “For tonight.”
Harua nodded, scanning the shelves one last time before collapsing against a crate. “Yeah. For tonight.” The words felt heavier than they should. Nights were supposed to be safe, predictable. And yet, the thought of tomorrow—the streets, the cold, the uncertainty—made him tighten his fingers around the edge of the crate.
Jo moved closer, settling against the wall a few feet away, shotgun resting between his knees. He caught Harua’s gaze and offered a small, reassuring smile. “You okay?”
Harua grunted, shrugging. “I’m fine. Just tired. This moving thing—it’s different. But fine.”
Jo tilted his head. “You sound hopeful.”
Harua froze. Hope. Dangerous, stupid, terrifying hope. He didn’t like it. Didn’t trust it. And yet, somehow, he couldn’t stop it from crawling into his chest, a stubborn ember he hadn’t expected.
“I’m not hopeful,” he muttered, voice low and rough. “Just less irritated than usual.”
Jo chuckled softly, brushing a hand along the edge of the counter. “Sure. Less irritated, more hopeful.”
Harua’s lips pressed into a thin line, eyes narrowing as he turned to face the wall, staring at peeling paint and shadows stretching across the floor.
Jo tilted his head. “You’re scared,” he said gently, matter-of-fact, not teasing, not mocking. Just stating what was obvious.
Harua didn’t answer. He just let his body slump a little further against the crate, letting the quiet wash over him. He could feel Jo’s presence a few feet away, steady, warm in its own quiet way.
“Goodnight, Harua,” Jo said after a moment, careful.
Harua let out a short, sharp breath, almost a scoff, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “Goodnight,” he replied, voice flat but not unkind.
Jo settled down against the wall, shotgun at the ready, but relaxed, eyes half-closed. Harua watched him for a long moment, the way the shadows played across his face, the quiet rise and fall of his chest. And despite every warning in his head, every lesson about isolation and survival, Harua felt it again—hope.
It was terrifying. Dangerous. But tonight, he let himself hold it anyway.
Because maybe, just maybe, a little hope wouldn't be the death of him.
-
From the second-story window of a sagging house across the street, a figure watched.
Through the dust-caked glass, the glow of firelight flickered against the walls. Two shadows moved inside—easy silhouettes, unaware.
The man raised his weapon, the sight lining up with the store window. His finger rested against the trigger, steady.
A long breath in.
Then he lowered it.