THIS DOG BITES BACK.

he’s survived long enough to claim a place as a maintenance hand, operating out of riverside. depending on who you ask, he’s decisive or just as easily bitter when things go wrong. these days, he keeps to the old library. at least, that’s where he’s usually spotted. around the city, he’s known as the landmine. interesting, isn’t it? survival has a way of making everyone memorable.

park jih.oon, he/him, cisgender man, twenty4.

trigger warning for the following topics: child abandonment + endangerment, death, and violence

clearance interview: completion of this interview does not guarantee safety, protection, or loyalty from new eden or its territories.

what was the first thing you did to survive once you realized help wasn’t coming?

"i waited. and i cried." his voice is quiet, almost neutral, fingers picking at the pads of his hands. "i mean, i was nine? ten? i didn’t think i could do anything else. i thought — " he swallows, eyes dropping. "i thought our parents would come back for us."

he remembers the basement. the cracking grays of unfinished concrete, a folding table shoved against one wall. the lights buzzed even then. these days they barely work at all. there was a time he remembered it kindly, through borrowed nostalgia. it was home. it was also where he would have died, if his sister hadn’t pried him out.

"but someone did find us, eventually." and he should feel grateful, shouldn’t he? at least, that’s what he's been told, as one of the "lucky ones." but two things can be true at once. the first is that their saviors fed them, sheltered them, taught them everything they needed for the apocalypse. and the second is that he burned them.

which territory do you trust the least, and why?

with power comes tyrants. he has bore witness to the flash of guns fired, how deep barbed wire can plunge. it’s driven his distaste for authority. how many times can you be failed by something before you stop believing?

but oddly enough, it isn’t northside. "the cut," nolan says, without pause.

to nolan, the two territories are opposite sides of the same coin. a power found in standing tall, trying to cast shadows bigger than oneself. but what makes northside more bearable is how it seems to have its reign of terror evenly dispersed, its ugliness predictable and caution tape clear.

but he owes less reticence to the other. the cut has enough hands to tear riverside apart for supplies if they so desire, and no spine or bearing to rules strong enough to stop them once they start.

"at least northside has a code."

have you ever betrayed a group to stay alive?

there is a silence stretching long enough to be heavy, teeth pressing into the inner flesh of his cheek.

"i did, once," he admits; no ounce of regret in his tone. almost reminiscent, in the way the corners of his mouth shoot up slightly, but these aren’t memories he is particularly smug about. he guides his exhale out through his lips, slow and controlled, like extinguishing a candle. "if i hadn’t, i wouldn’t be here to answer that."

would you do it again?

he is sixteen years old and freezing, snow crunching with every step, breath appearing as a brief fog. ash decorating the skies above him: in the acrid smell, in their vision. the icy storm and the roaring fire. the victor is known, but he wonders how long it will take for the undead to reap their prize.

nolan seon has never been a runner. cursed with shortness of breath, a heart that feels like bursting. it is precisely why they did not expect him to then. it is why, here and now, he shakes his head and answers: "no. i won’t have to."