Nina

The chilling realization struck Y/N like a viper's bite. Her gaze, sharp and predatory, fell upon the worn, leather-bound journal clutched in her hand. "That's my fucking journal," she hissed, the words a silent detonation in the suffocating stillness of the room. Alarm bells, shrill and insistent, immediately blared through the usually unshakeable fortress of Y/N's mind. Her eyes, the color of cold steel, narrowed into perilous slits as she confirmed the impossible. She flipped to the inside cover, her fingers tracing the faded, looping script of her own name – the messy, almost childlike scrawl of the fifteen-year-old girl she once was. Every buried memory, every carefully constructed wall around her past, now lay horrifyingly exposed, laid bare by the audacious, prying eyes that had dared to violate her most private sanctuary.

But the journal, as deeply unsettling as it was, was only the first tremor before the earthquake. Something else, a glint of familiar, crinkled paper, caught her eye within the drawer. Her old maps. The very maps she had meticulously crafted and then abandoned, four years prior, at that sterile, desolate hospital. They were all there, a chilling testament to Ellie's insidious obsession.

With a jolt of controlled fury, Y/N slammed the journal onto the polished surface of the nearby table. Her long, slender fingers, usually so precise and unhurried, now tore through the jumbled stack of papers. Amidst her own faded cartography, she saw them – Ellie's maps. Maps that mirrored her own, scrawled with the same routes, the same landmarks, the same chilling precision.

‘The crazy bitch has been tracking me,’ Y/N's thoughts, sharp as broken glass, cut through the quiet. The rhythmic murmur of running water from the adjoining bathroom, a deceptively mundane sound, pulled her from the abyss of her seething anger. In an instant, her instincts, honed by years of living on the knife-edge, screamed for action. She lunged for her bag, a dark, nondescript satchel that held her meticulously chosen tools for survival.

With a practiced swiftness, she snatched her old journal and the damning collection of maps, stuffing them back into the abyss of her bag. She was midway through securing the zipper when the bathroom door, a heavy oak barrier, swung open with a slow, deliberate creak.

Ellie stood framed in the doorway, a pale, almost ethereal figure. Her eyes, wide and unnervingly bright, fixated on Y/N, who remained hunched over her bag, her head still down, her face obscured. A tense, suffocating silence descended, broken only by the frantic beat of Y/N's own heart, a drum against her ribs.

Then, Y/N lifted her head. Her eyebrows, usually calm and composed, were now deeply furrowed, a thunderous scowl of pure, unadulterated irritation marring her otherwise impassive features. Her eyes, those cold, calculating orbs, narrowed at the pale woman, each gaze a silent, deadly accusation.

"Y/N... put that down," Ellie's voice was a soft, almost hypnotic whisper, a stark contrast to the coiled menace emanating from Y/N. Ellie slowly lifted her hand, her palm outstretched in a placating gesture, as if attempting to soothe a wild, cornered beast. She took a single, measured step closer, her gaze flickering to the throbbing vein that pulsed ominously in Y/N's temple as her eyes intensified their lethal glare.

"Y/N... calm down—"

"Don't tell me to calm down!" Y/N practically snarled, the words dripping with a venomous contempt that could curdle blood. Her voice was a low, guttural growl, like a feral dog protecting its territory. This was more than just a breach of privacy; it was a profound violation, a defilement of her very being. Every fiber of her being screamed in protest. "You've been tracking me? You don't even know me from a can of paint." Y/N's jaw snapped shut, the sound sharp and final, like a trap closing.

As Y/N unleashed her icy fury, Ellie, with an unsettling, almost imperceptible shift, inched closer. Her hand, moving with surprising speed, lurched out, closing around the strap of Y/N's bag. Ellie tugged, her grip surprisingly strong, wrenching the bag from Y/N's grasp.

‘Gotcha,’ Ellie thought, a flicker of triumph in her eyes. She assumed victory, a momentary lapse in her predator's instinct, as Y/N initially didn't move to reclaim her property. Distracted by her perceived success, Ellie reached her hand into the depths of Y/N's bag, her gaze momentarily averted.

The faint, almost imperceptible creak of floorboards reached her ears, a chilling whisper in the oppressive silence. Ellie's head snapped back up, her eyes wide with a sudden, dawning terror. Y/N was no longer where she had been. She was impossibly closer, her movements silent, fluid, and utterly predatory. If not for that solitary creak, Ellie would have never known she was coming.

Ellie's heart, a frantic drum in her chest, skipped a beat, then hammered against her ribs as she was met with the cold, unforgiving barrel of Y/N's pistol pressed firmly against her forehead. Y/N's eyebrows were deeply furrowed, a primal growl rumbling in her throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated warning.

"Give me my bag before I paint these walls red.”

Meanwhile the frigid, relentless snow descended from a sky the color of old bruises, each delicate, crystalline flake a silent herald of the deepening twilight. It blanketed the hushed, desolate landscape in an ethereal, blinding white, muffling every sound until only the wailing wind seemed to exist. A trembling, pale hand, almost translucent against the pristine canvas of the ground, reached out. Its slender fingers, tipped with bloodless nails, brushed against the soft, powderyaccumulation, seeking something hidden beneath its innocent facade. Slowly, with a macabre grace, they unearthed a photograph, half-buried, its surface already slick with melting snow.

The long-haired woman, her features stark and angular against the dark, swirling storm, brought the picture closer to her face. Her breath, a ghostly plume in the bitter air, momentarily obscured the image. As it cleared, her haunted, weary eyes, the color of a winter sky before a storm, meticulously scanned the faded print. A sudden, gasping intake of breath hitched in her throat as her gaze snagged on a familiar face—a vibrant, smiling girl, seemingly oblivious to the unseen horrors that surely lurked in the periphery. This girl… it was the very same one she had inexplicably collided with hours earlier, their brief, jarring encounter now echoing with a chilling new significance. Her eyes, now razor-sharp with a mix of recognition and mounting dread, narrowed to pinpricks as they fixated on a disturbing detail: a small, dark area barely visible, peeking out from beneath the collar of the girl’s shirt in the photograph. It was a mark, a faint, almost imperceptible splotch against the pale skin, yet its implications were monumental. A cold, unbearabledread coiled in her stomach, tightening with each beat of her hammering heart. Her eyes, previously narrowed, now widened in sheer, unadulterated horror.

The cabin hummed with a soft, ambient glow, the warm yellow light spilling from a battered nightstand lamp. Every surface seemed to breathe with the accumulated history of its occupant. Papers, worn at the edges and curled with age, were meticulously taped to the rough-hewn wooden walls, creating a vibrant, chaotic tapestry. Some were intricate drawings, sketches of flora and fauna, landscapes both desolate and lush. Others were maps, crisscrossed with faded ink, charting forgotten paths and whispered safe zones. Scattered amongst them were the tangible echoes of journeys past: a dried, pressed wildflower, a shard of iridescent glass, a smooth, river-tumbled stone—artifacts, each displayed with a reverence that spoke of discovery and survival.

On the queen-sized bed, its sheets a rumpled landscape of dreams, sat a young woman. Pillows, soft as clouds, propped her upright, her knees drawn halfway to her chest. She was swallowed by a baggy grey hoodie, its fabric worn soft from countless washes, a second skin over her lean frame. Faded, well-loved jeans clung to her legs, bearing the silent testament of endless treks. Her worn sneakers, laced and ready for the next adventure, rested neatly by the door, a silent promise of future expeditions. Across the room, her desk groaned under the chaotic weight of scattered papers, a battlefield of thoughts and observations.

This pale woman, known to the sparse world as Ellie Williams, was consumed. Not by the gentle ambiance of the cabin, nor by the promise of the untouched wilderness outside. Her focus, sharp and unwavering, was on the journal resting in her lap, a relic she had unearthed from the silent, skeletal remains of an abandoned hospital. Her fingers, slim and pale, traced the intricate, almost arcane designs of its cover, a silent caress. Next to her, a Walkman, its plastic casing scarred with time, hummed a low, metallic tune. Headphones, plugged in and nestled against her ears, delivered the melancholic strains of an old song, a melody she’d had on repeat for the past hour, a looping mantra. She studied the journal’s exterior, a prickle of curiosity stirring deep within her, before finally, reverently, opening the book. She was about to flick past the first page, already devoured countless times, when her keen green eyes snagged on something new, something previously unseen.

[First name], [Last Name]

The name, scrawled in a messy, almost urgent hand, lay bare on the pristine page. I don’t remember seeing this before, Ellie’s mind whispered, a tremor of discovery running through her. Her pale, slender fingers, trembling almost imperceptibly, traced the curves and angles of the letters. It’s a pretty name, she mused, a strange, undeniable warmth blooming in her chest as she studied the handwriting, undeniably feminine, undeniably… hers. A powerful, almost magnetic pull dragged her deeper. Reluctantly, she tore her gaze away, flipping through the journal to the dog-eared page where she had last left off, a quiet hunger gnawing at her.

For days now, this journal had been her sole obsession. On patrol, under the watchful, indifferent gaze of the Jackson walls, she'd hidden it, a precious secret tucked away in her desk. Her mind, like a lost puppy, would constantly wander back to it, aching for its presence, for its voice. A profound, almost unsettling connection had blossomed between her and Y/N, a connection that defied logic. She had never met this woman, never seen her face, yet it felt meant to be. Y/N understood Ellie in a way no one else ever had, her words a mirror reflecting Ellie's own raw, untamed spirit. And, in turn, Ellie understood Y/N, her heart beating in sync with the distant echoes of a shared, brutal existence.

Soon, Ellie’s solo patrols stretched, becoming longer, more desperate expeditions. She wasn’t merely scouting for threats; she was searching for the enigmatic Y/N. Despite having no description, no hint of her appearance, a visceral conviction swelled within Ellie: she would know her. It’s meant to be, she thought, a fierce, almost religious certainty. Just as the thought solidified, a sharp knock shattered the cabin’s quiet sanctity. With a frustrated huff, Ellie ripped the headphones from her ears, tossing them aside as if they were a nuisance, her hands already reaching for the journal. She stood, simultaneously snapping the book shut with a decisive click, its pages a locked treasure. Walking towards the door, her movements swift and practiced, she deftly slipped the journal into her desk drawer, the faint whisper of paper on wood a promise of future communion.

Once the precious artifact was secured, she opened the door, revealing Jesse, his familiar grin a jarring contrast to her internal turmoil.

“Um… hi?” Ellie questioned, her eyes scanning behind Jesse, a habitual caution ingrained from years of survival. They were friends, comrades forged in the crucible of this new world, ever since Ellie’s arrival in Jackson.

“Tommy asked for us. Something about a newbie around our age,” Jesse explained nonchalantly, oblivious to the storm brewing within her. Ellie nodded, a practiced politeness. It was standard procedure in Jackson: integrate new arrivals, especially solo ones, by introducing them to their peers. It was a well-intentioned gesture, but one Ellie had largely avoided, most newcomers being older, seasoned veterans.

“Just give me a sec. I’ll be right out,” Ellie mumbled, already closing the door. Her gaze, pulled by an invisible thread, drifted back to the desk, to the unseen presence of the journal. A deep, aching missing sensation bloomed in her chest. She itched to get back to it, to lose herself in Y/N’s world, to escape this trivial, forced interaction with a stranger. It was a drug, an insatiable craving. She’d consume a fragment, a few pages, only to find herself needing more, an endless, escalating hunger.

Ellie huffed, dragging her eyes away from the desk with a visible effort. She slipped on her sneakers, lacing them with a furious efficiency before standing. Tugging at her hoodie, she sniffed at the fabric. Hm… smells fine, she thought, a fleeting, almost detached assessment. She grabbed her water bottle and jacket. Just as she was shrugging into the jacket, Jesse’s impatient knock rattled the door once more.

“I’m coming! Give me a sec!” Ellie called out, a false annoyance lacing her voice. She pulled on her jacket, grabbed her water bottle, and stalked towards the door. With a practiced swing, she opened it, stepping out into the cold morning air, which bit at her exposed skin.

“You ready?” Jesse asked, his arms crossed over his chest, his breath misting in the frigid air. Ellie merely gave a silent nod, her eyes already distant, her mind already back in the cabin, yearning for the next fix. She closed the door behind her, sealing away her secret, and stepped off the porch, following Jesse into the vast, indifferent wilderness.

The sterile, muted light of the lobby did little to soften the hardened edges of Y/N’s gaze. Years of relentless survival had sculpted her into a being of pure vigilance, every muscle taut, every sense honed to a razor’s edge. Her black winter jacket, thick and insulated, was a second skin against the persistent chill, its practical design a testament to a life lived in constant motion. A dark blue knit hat hugged her head, shadowing eyes that missed nothing, while black tactical glovesencased her hands, ever ready for action. Below, black sweatpants, subtly reinforced, concealed a hidden knife—a silent, lethal promise—and a pair of matching snow boots provided both warmth and traction. Her well-worn backpack, a repository of her meager world, rested between her boots, a silent, heavy companion. The comforting, familiar weight of her concealed pistol pressed against her ankle, a constant reassurance that she was never truly defenseless.

Y/N’s focus, sharp and unforgiving, was fixed on Tommy. He sat across from her, his voice a low murmur as he meticulously detailed the perceived security and community of Jackson. She listened, or rather, half-listened. The other half of her formidable mind was already engaged in a silent, intricate dance of strategic planning. Her eyes, seemingly passive, were in fact cataloging every potential exit, every shadowed corner, every weakness in the room’s layout. She was already constructing a multi-layered escape plan, a labyrinth of contingencies in case this fragile illusion of safety shattered. So deeply was she immersed in this mental exercise that Tommy’s voice, a sudden absence, almost caught her unawares.

“You know you’re safe here, right?” Tommy’s voice, softer now, intruded on her thoughts as he pulled up a chair directly across from her. Y/N’s shoulders tensed imperceptibly. Trust was a luxury she had long since discarded, a weakness she could not afford. The phantom touch of a deceased comrade’s faith in Tommy meant nothing to her. She had witnessed, firsthand, the grotesque unraveling of humanity—friends, family, even lovers turning on each other for the most trivial of reasons. Humans, in their primal essence, were savages, every last one of them. And Y/N, with a cold, iron resolve, refused to become just another casualty of their inherent brutality.

“[Friend’s name] wouldn’t send you here if he knew it wasn’t safe,” Tommy continued, invoking the name from the note she’d presented upon her arrival. Y/N merely offered a curt, almost imperceptible nod, a silent agreement to play along with this dangerous game. There was a minuscule, almost insignificant chance that this place was as secure as he claimed, and if so, she wouldn't squander a potential refuge by burning her bridges too soon. Yet, despite the logical assessment, her fingers itched to grasp her gun, a primal urge for its solid, familiar weight. Even knowing it was nestled safely in her boot, she felt exposed, vulnerable in a way that years of constant threat had taught her to abhor.

The door creaked open, a groan of stressed wood against the oppressive silence. Instantly, Y/N’s gaze, a weapon in itself, locked onto the slender crack. Her muscles, taut as steel cables, didn't lock, but remained poised, ready to spring into lethal action should an intruder appear. “Relax,” Tommy’s voice, a low rumble, broke the heavy air as he nudged her shoulder. “It’s just some of the townsfolk coming to welcome you. They’ll give you a tour.” He spoke with a nonchalance that grated on Y/N’s nerves, a stark contrast to the ever-present vigilance that had kept her alive.

The first figure to enter was a tall, Asian man, his frame lean beneath a dark red jacket that seemed almost vibrant in the muted light. A charming, easy smile played on his lips, revealing a flash of white teeth. He wore practical black jeans and matching sneakers, their scuffs hinting at countless miles traversed. Trailing closely behind him was a girl, significantly shorter, with skin almost ethereal in its paleness, a scattering of freckles like constellations across her nose and cheeks. Her emerald green eyes, startlingly bright, held a restless energy. Her brown hair, cut short, was pulled back in a messy, half-up, half-down bun, wisps framing her face.

As Ellie stepped into the room, her gaze, sharp and assessing, first found Tommy, his familiar face a momentary anchor in her swirling thoughts. He was a constant, a comforting presence like an uncle, despite the strained silence between her and Joel. Then, her eyes drifted, snagging on the woman sitting opposite him. Y/N. The woman's gaze was a hardened shield, laced with an unsettling skepticism. She exuded the aura of a born killer, one whose every action was meticulously calculated for self-preservation alone. Nothing else mattered. Selfish? Yes, Ellie’s mind supplied, a strange, dark admiration blooming within her. Smart? Absolutely.

When Ellie’s gaze finally locked with Y/N’s, something deep within her stirred violently. A jolt of recognition, a phantom sense of familiarity that sent a jolt down her spine. Could this be? A desperate, thrilling thought echoed in her mind. No, it would be too easy. Imagine her luck if the author of the journal, her journal, was sitting right in front of her.But God, she was beautiful. Ellie felt herself teetering on the edge of a precipice, ready to fall into those eyes, even if they were cold and calculating, even if they held the weight of a thousand unspoken horrors.

“Jesse, Ellie.” Tommy’s voice, a gentle clap of thunder, shattered the suffocating silence and Ellie’s burgeoning thoughts. Jesse had already turned to face Tommy, his smile still in place. Ellie, jolted back to the present, followed suit, turning to the older man. Tommy’s smile deepened, etching his wrinkles into more prominent maps on his face. “Please give Y/N here a warm welcome. She’ll be staying with us.”

The words hung in the air, a bell tolling a divine decree. Ellie froze, every fiber of her being locking into place. ‘No. Fucking. Way.’

She knew it. She had felt it. There was an undeniable pull, a gravitational force that tugged at her very core, drawing her inexorably towards this woman. Surely Y/N would have felt it too, wouldn’t she? It was obvious they were meant to be, two halves of a fractured whole. Y/N would understand, would truly understand her, better than Dina ever could, better than Joel. Ellie’s breathing quickened, a frantic flutter in her chest. Her fingers itched, a desperate longing to reach out, to touch Y/N’s skin. To feel where that bite mark was, the one she’d read about, the one that made her unique. Oh, how Ellie longed to leave her own bite mark on Y/N, to decorate her skin, a primal urge to brand her, to show the world, to show Y/N herself, that they were irrevocably linked.

“Ellie? You alright?”

Tommy’s voice, laced with concern, dragged Ellie back from the precipice of her burgeoning obsession. “Huh?” she managed, blinking, the word a strangled sound. She looked away sheepishly, a hot flush rising on her cheeks, as Y/N’s eyes, narrowed into suspicious slits, fixed on her. Way to make a first impression. Now she thinks you’re a weirdo for drooling all over her. Ellie winced internally, the thought a cold splash of reality.

“I said why don’t you and Jesse give Y/N a tour?” Tommy asked, looking between the two younger survivors. “O-of course!” Ellie blurted out, her voice too hasty, too bright, too embarrassingly excited. It was already beginning to betray her.

Y/N let out a soft sigh, barely audible, her eyebrows furrowing in a subtle frown. Great. I’m stuck with a weirdo. The thought was a sharp, clinical assessment. With a fluid, practiced motion, she rose, slinging her backpack over her shoulder, a faint scowl pulling at the corners of her lips. She didn’t protest, though, knowing a fight over a tour was beneath her. Tommy, observing Ellie’s peculiar outburst, gave her a confused look but wisely chose not to comment, simply waving the three teens on their way.

As Y/N stepped out of the building, her gaze immediately began its methodical scan of her surroundings. The town of Jackson felt… exposed. Few people carried firearms openly, a stark contrast to the armed camps and desolate roads she was accustomed to. That must be why her weapons had been confiscated upon arrival, all except for the ones she had so carefully hidden.

“So… how old are you?” Jesse asked, turning to Y/N as they walked, attempting a casual conversational tone. Ellie, walking a step behind, seemed to perk up instantly, her head cocking slightly. Her eyes, fixed on Y/N, held a hidden, eager glint, a look that screamed trouble to Y/N’s finely tuned instincts. Curiosity often led to danger. But, she had to admit, a flicker of curiosity stirred within her too.

“I’m nineteen,” Y/N replied, her voice carefully modulated, laced with a subtle undercurrent of uncertainty. Not about her age, but about the fragile illusion of safety that permeated this town. “How old are you guys?” she asked, the question driven by a genuine, if fleeting, curiosity.

“So am I!” Ellie practically chirped, her voice a little too loud, a little too excited. She instantly slowed her pace, subtly maneuvering herself to walk side-by-side with Y/N. Jesse shot Ellie a knowing glance, but remained silent.

“I’m 20,” Jesse offered, then, with a mischievous grin, added, “It seems you two are hitting it off. I have some chores I need to finish up. Ellie… are you okay here?”

“Psh, yeah, I’m fine,” Ellie said, attempting a nonchalant tone, but her tight grip on her own arm betrayed her, a silent struggle to prevent herself from clinging to Y/N. Jesse nodded, seemingly satisfied, before bidding the two women goodbye and veering off down a side path.

Left alone, Ellie took on the mantle of tour guide, her voice a rapid-fire stream of information about the town. “They still haven’t gotten your place together yet. So you can room with me.” The words tumbled out, a hopeful, barely contained eagerness in her tone. Y/N merely nodded wordlessly as they approached Ellie’s small cabin, its rough-hewn facade blending into the landscape. As Ellie swung open the door, holding it wide in an unspoken invitation, Y/N politely refused to enter first. She gestured for the pale woman to go on ahead, playing it off as a gesture of chivalry. In reality, Y/N had no intention of allowing Ellie the tactical advantage of being behind her in an unfamiliar space.

Stepping inside, Y/N’s gaze immediately swept across the cabin’s interior, assessing, calculating. She noted the small, telling details: the way Ellie hastily, almost desperately, tried to neaten her desk, a small cloud of dust rising from disturbed papers. “Um… i-ignore the mess… please,” Ellie stammered, the last word almost a whimper, her cheeks flushing.

Throughout the night, Y/N remained largely silent, a quiet observer. Ellie, however, chatted away, a continuous stream of words, showing off her latest sketches and her eclectic movie collection. Just as Ellie was about to select a movie, she excused herself to use the bathroom, leaving Y/N alone in the cabin. This was her chance to snoop.

Rising with a predator’s silent grace, Y/N began her methodical inspection. The cabin, despite its occupant’s dorky enthusiasm, was both messy and meticulously clean, a strange contradiction. She opened the nightstand drawer first, her fingers brushing against the cold plastic of music tapes for Ellie’s Walkman and a small bottle of sleep medication. Nothing overtly suspicious. She closed the drawer.

Next, the closet. A quick peek revealed a stack of blankets and several boxes filled with what appeared to be innocuous junk: dusty toys, a worn collection of comic books. Still, nothing that screamed alarm. Maybe I’m overreacting, Y/N thought, a rare flicker of self-doubt. Perhaps this Ellie girl was simply awkward, unaccustomed to prolonged social interaction, an isolated survivor.

Finally, her gaze settled on the messy desk, a chaotic pile of papers, mostly drawings and maps. She opened the first drawer: pens, pencils, markers. Mundane. Maybe I’m self-sabotaging, she mused, the thought a flicker of vulnerability. But her gut, a seasoned companion, had never been wrong.

She opened the second drawer. More music notebooks, neatly stacked, alongside a few hair ties and a simple necklace. Nothing. She closed the second drawer, a faint, almost imperceptible sigh escaping her lips. Just as her fingers brushed against the pull of the third drawer, the distinct sound of a toilet flushing echoed from the bathroom. She still had time, she hoped. Ellie would wash her hands… wouldn't she? Peering into the third drawer, Y/N’s eyes widened, a cold shock seizing her.

Four brutal years had clawed their way past since that devastating day. Y/n, a lone wolf in a world ravaged by an insatiable plague, had joined group after group, only to witness them crumble. Some tore themselves apart, consumed by their own savage instincts, while others simply succumbed to the grotesque virus. Her once vibrant, hopeful eyes had hardened into cold, unyielding steel, each a testament to the countless times she'd been forced to pull the trigger on a loved one – a partner, a parent, a friend – their final, vacant stare etched into her very soul. Now, the unforgiving grip of winter had descended, its icy breath a constant reminder of the scarce, yet still obtainable, resources.

The hypnotic crackle of the fire was the only sound piercing the desolate silence as Y/n, her movements economical and precise, nudged another splintered branch into the hungry, scarlet and tangerine flames. Smoke, a whispering tendril, snaked its way upwards, escaping through a crude opening in the makeshift roof of her temporary shelter. It offered a dangerous, yet comforting, warmth against the biting chill. This was fleeting, though. Whispers of a civilized haven, a place called Jackson, had drifted on the wind, a beacon of improbable hope a few miles to the west.

Day 28. Y/n’s calloused fingers clutched her worn journal, its pages a fragile tether to sanity. Just hours ago, she had been forced to put down her lover, a sweet girl named [past lover]. The memory was a fresh wound, throbbing with a dull ache. She gripped her pen so tightly her knuckles blanched, a desperate attempt to suppress the horrifying image of how quickly the virus had consumed [past lover]. As she wrote, the stubborn ballpoint scraped across the paper, leaving an indelible trail of ink, each word a desperate plea against the encroaching darkness. The pen was almost dry; another scavenging run was inevitable. Her dwindling supplies—two meager first aid kits, a handful of shotgun shells, and two bottles of water, one already half-empty—were a stark reminder of her precarious existence.

Her head snapped up, her [eye color] eyes, sharp and alert, scanning the desolate landscape outside the window. "The storm's died down," she murmured to herself, a rare moment of quiet thought in the chaotic symphony of her mind. [past lover] used to joke that the weather quieted her tumultuous thoughts. Perhaps she had been right.

Y/n’s thoughts, a tumultuous, roaring crowd, ceased abruptly, like an angry mob instantly silenced by a single, commanding voice. The distinct snap of a twig from just outside the rickety, rundown house instantly seized her attention. With a lightning-fast reaction, she sprang to her feet, stomping out the embers of the dying fire with her heavy snow boots, the last vestiges of warmth snuffed out. She dropped into a low crouch beside a grimy window, her eyes, like a predator’s, narrowing. Peeking out, she saw them: three hulking figures, silhouetted against the pale snow, almost certainly raiders.

Slinging her heavy backpack onto her shoulders, she cinched the straps tight, a silent declaration of war. Bullets were too precious, too scarce, to waste on mere thugs. A knife. A knife would have to suffice. Y/n stayed low, a shadow amongst shadows, her movements fluid and silent as she crept towards the back door, circling the house. Escape was her priority; a direct confrontation was an unnecessary drain on her dwindling energy. She peered cautiously around the corner, her gaze sweeping the area.

"Just my luck," she thought, a sardonic twist to her lips. "He's standing right there." Her [eye color] eyes, predatory and calculating, fixated on the man with his back to her. But it wasn’t him that held her attention; it was the bulging, overstuffed backpack slung across his shoulders. Perhaps, just perhaps, she wouldn’t need that scavenging run after all.

Rounding the corner, her footsteps were ghostly quiet, swallowed by the fresh, powdery snow that had recently fallen. Once within striking distance, she lunged, a lethal blur of motion. Her arm, steel-strong, wrapped around the man's neck, pulling him down against her, the sudden, crushing pressure cutting off his desperate cry for his comrades. His hands dropped his weapon, clawing wildly at Y/n’s face, but before his fingernails could even graze her skin, she drove her honed dagger into the side of his head. His body went instantly limp, a puppet with its strings severed.

Dropping the lifeless weight, Y/n moved on, a lethal whirlwind, to deal with the two remaining men, her movements even faster, more brutal than before. The hard-earned muscle that rippled beneath her worn clothing, a testament to years of relentless survival, served her well. Moments later, she sat amidst the three bulging backpacks, a queen surveying her spoils. Her hands, nimble and efficient, sifted through their contents, tossing aside worthless magazines and, with a disgusted snort, a suspicious white powder she wouldn’t even consider opening. The world was a brutal place, and Y/n, a survivor forged in its crucible, was a testament to that harsh reality.

The predawn air bit at Y/N’s exposed skin, a frigid kiss that only sharpened her focus. She knelt, fingers sifting through the overturned duffel, a grim satisfaction blooming as they brushed against the cool, slick metal of a few scavenged bullets. Not enough for a full-blown assault on the ravenous hordes, but enough to replenish her meager reserves, enough to tip the scales just slightly in her favor. Her gaze, cold and unblinking, lifted to the horizon. The first tendrils of dawn, a deceptively delicate palette of soft rose and ethereal gold, began to bleed across the inky canvas of the night sky. It was a beautiful lie, a fragile illusion of peace in a world ripped apart.

With a fluid, almost predatory grace, Y/N rose, leaving the now-empty bags to lie like discarded husks on the frost-hardened earth. She slung her pack over her shoulder, the familiar weight a comforting presence, and set off, her steps unnervingly light, each footfall placed with the meticulous precision of a hunter erasing her tracks in the pristine snow.

“Mel’s pregnant.”

The hushed whisper, thick with fear and resentment, drifted on the still air, instantly seizing Y/N’s attention. She dropped into a low crouch, her body instinctively melting into the sparse cover of a gnarled, snow-dusted bush. Raiders were a constant threat, a cancerous blight on this broken world, but these voices, soft and laced with desperation, didn't carry the familiar cadence of seasoned killers. More likely, they were just foolish, vulnerable adolescents arguing over a mistake. Thank goodness I’m not pregnant, Y/N thought, a flicker of something akin to grim amusement crossing her features. Her eyes, sharp as a hawk’s, swept across the desolate landscape, dissecting every shadow, every potential vantage point, her mind already constructing an escape route. It was then she noticed the silence. The hushed voices had vanished. Even the scarce birds, those brave few who dared to eke out an existence in this desolation, had fallen still. The sudden, suffocating quiet screamed danger.

A metallic click, chillingly close, shattered the oppressive stillness. The icy kiss of a gun barrel pressed against the back of her head, a cold dread seeping into her scalp. “No sudden movements,” a man’s voice rasped, devoid of true menace, a tremor of uncertainty underlying his forced authority. He sounded soft. And soft people, Y/N knew, ended up dead.

“Stand up… slowly.” His grip on the weapon tightened, a desperate attempt to feign control. Y/N complied, her movements deliberately languid. But as she began to turn, a flicker of calculation in her eyes, she exploded into motion. It was a blur of controlled aggression: one hand snatching for the gun, the other slamming into his wrist with bone-jarring force, simultaneously redirecting the barrel skyward just as the shot cracked, a deafening roar that tore through the fragile quiet.

Birds, roused from their precarious perches, scattered like shrapnel against the pale sky, fleeing their nests in a chaotic flurry. Y/N’s hand, a vise of steel, clamped around the smoking barrel, wrenching the weapon free with a brutal tug. In one seamless motion, it was leveled at his chest, her finger already resting on the trigger guard. He was young, a boy barely a man, perhaps a year younger than her, or the same age. Behind him, a woman, formidable in her sheer bulk, trained her own weapon on Y/N. Broad-shouldered, corded with muscle, she was built like an ox, a hulking silhouette against the muted dawn. Y/N had encountered women like this before; they rarely possessed skill, only raw, unrefined strength. It made them predictable. It made them easy kills.

“I don’t want any trouble,” Y/N’s voice cut through the tense air, a blade of ice. It held no comfort, no hint of compromise. Her hardened eyes, her taut stance, the lean, dangerous grace of her build—it all broadcast an unmistakable message: she would shoot. She hadn't survived this long on luck; luck was a mirage in this desolate world.

“That’s rich coming from you,” the woman retorted, her voice a deep, almost sultry rumble, unexpected from such a formidable frame.

“Says the pair who put a barrel to my head,” Y/N shot back, her voice laced with unapologetic venom. “Look, all I want is to pass through. We can do this peacefully, or we can alert every infected within a mile radius. Your choice.” She practically barked the last words, her gaze unwavering, daring them to defy her.

“What makes you think we can trust you—” the woman began, but her words were swallowed by a low, guttural moan that echoed through the trees. The unmistakable sound of infected. Y/N didn't even flinch, her eyes remaining fixed on the pair before her. They, however, instinctively craned their necks, a flicker of panic in their eyes.

Two runners burst from behind them, a whirlwind of decaying flesh and feral hunger. Before either of the bewildered strangers could react, Y/N moved, a blur of lethal efficiency. Her borrowed gun barked twice, sharp reports that ripped through the morning air. Two precise headshots, two crimson explosions that splattered against the pristine snow, turning it a grotesque tapestry of red and black. The woman whirled, her weapon raised, only to find her intended targets already twitching on the ground, their grotesque dance of death abruptly ended.

“Now, do you trust me?” Y/N’s voice, a cold whisper, was edged with a dangerous amusement. The stolen gun, still warm in her grasp, remained pointed steadily at them. The woman’s already scowling face tightened further, her dark eyes narrowing in grudging assessment. The boy beside her glanced at her, awaiting her decision.

“Fine,” she finally conceded, stepping aside, the boy mirroring her movement.

Y/N studied their wary compliance, a flicker of satisfaction in her gaze, before walking between them. As she passed, she casually tossed the gun by the boy’s feet, the metallic clatter a harsh punctuation to the silence. Without another word, she rounded the corner, leaving them to their stunned contemplation, their predicament no longer her concern.

The rest of the trek was an hour of relentless, solitary movement. The sun, a cold orb in the pale sky, had fully ascended, washing the world in a stark, unforgiving light. In the distance, a glimmer of hope: a town. Lights flickered like defiant embers against the encroaching gloom, less than half a mile away. The faint sound of a patrol, a rhythmic crunch of boots on snow, alerted her. Before they could spot her, Y/N seamlessly slid her pistol into her boot, its familiar weight a secret comfort. She approached the wall, hands raised, a picture of unarmed compliance, even as her senses remained hyper-alert.

“Who are you?” a man barked, his voice raw with authority, his finger resting menacingly on the trigger of his rifle. This was no soft boy; this was a man forged in the fires of survival, a guardian with something vital to protect.

“My name is Y/N,” she replied, her voice firm, unwavering. “I was told about this place.”

The air crackled with tension. “By who?” the man demanded, taking a step closer, his eyes scrutinizing her with unnerving intensity. He was older, perhaps late forties, nearing fifty, lines of hardship etched deep into his weathered face.

“There’s a note in my back pocket,” Y/N stated, meeting his gaze without flinching. “I was told to look for a man named Tommy Miller.”

The man’s grip on his rifle subtly loosened, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. “That’d be me,” he said, suspicion still clinging to his words. He circled Y/N, another armed figure keeping their rifle leveled, ensuring she made no sudden moves. The man behind her patted her down, his hands swift and efficient, until he found the crumpled note. His eyebrows rose as he unfolded it, his eyes widening almost imperceptibly. He turned to the other guard.

Blaring unearthly sirens ripped the [skin color] woman from what felt like a deep, suffocating sleep. Her eyes fluttered open, at first seeing only an oppressive, inky blackness. Then, a sickly crimson hue pulsed into existence, emanating from unseen emergency lights. They flashed, painting brief, ghastly tableaux of the room before plunging it back into the terrifying void.

She sat bolt upright on a frigid, metallic operating table, the shocking cold seeping into her bones. Her gaze swept across what appeared to be a medical room, yet it was steeped in an eerie disarray. Gleaming, alien tools, vials of unidentifiable, viscous liquids, and an assortment of syringes lay strewn across filthy surfaces. A metal tray had been violently overturned, its contents scattered, leaving a blood-stained medical knife glinting menacingly in the center of the floor.

Just then, a sharp, burning sensation tore through (y/n)’s arm. She glanced down, her breath catching in her throat. A grotesque, deeply embedded bite mark, its edges raw and inflamed, marred her skin. Dark, viscous blood oozed sluggishly from the wound, making the [skin color] woman grimace in disgust and dread. On her other arm, a network of thin, cold wires pierced her flesh. One appeared to be an IV line, formerly connected to a humming computer now reduced to a shattered, sparking husk.

Beside the ruined machine lay a crumpled, unmoving form. It was disturbingly limp, except for a faint, rattling groan that escaped its lips. Without a moment’s hesitation, (y/n) yanked the wires from her skin, ignoring the agonizing stingthat flared through her arm. She scrambled off the table, her legs wobbly beneath her, and stumbled towards the man lying on the floor.

“Excuse me? Are you… are you alright?” she whispered, her voice barely a tremor as she reached out to shake him.

The response was immediate and horrifying. The figure lunged upward with startling, unnatural speed. A sharp, involuntary yell tore from (y/n)’s lips as she stumbled backward, her heart hammering against her ribs. Its face was a decayed, putrefying mess, the skin hanging in tattered strips. Its eyes, once human, were now a milky, sightless white, devoid of any recognition.

The thing hauled itself to its feet, its movements jerky and unnatural, making (y/n) stumble back further. That wasn’t human. What monstrous abomination was this? she thought, her mind reeling in a frantic panic. Her eyes darted to the medical knife lying on the floor. Her trembling fingers closed around its cold, sharp handle, ready to stab, to fight, to survive.

But then, the creature shambled past her, bumping clumsily into a nearby wall. A lifeless, guttural groan escaped it, devoid of any malice. (y/n) stood frozen, her initial terror slowly giving way to a profound confusion. Cautiously, she straightened up and took a hesitant step towards it. It didn’t acknowledge her presence, its milky gaze fixed on nothing, its every movement utterly devoid of purpose. The silence that followed was even more unnerving than the sirens had been.

(Y/n) inched past the grotesque creature, her every muscle screaming for her to run, but a primal fear kept her movements slow, deliberate. The chillingly cold medical knife remained clutched in her trembling hand, its slick handle a strange comfort. The searing, incessant pain from the bite mark on her arm was a constant, agonizing reminder of the horrors she'd already faced. Her bare feet, strangely numb, padded silently against the unyielding, sterile hospital floor. It was only then, as the flimsy fabric brushed against her skin, that she truly registered the humiliating hospital gown clinging to her frame.

A sudden, startling clatter echoed from a nearby room, shattering the oppressive silence. Gripping the knife even tighter, its sharp edge biting into her palm, (y/n) cautiously peered around the corner. The sight that greeted her stole the breath from her lungs. Three more of the rotting-fleshed, milky-eyed creatures were hunched over something, their movements a macabre, silent feast. As her eyes adjusted to the dim, flickering light, she gasped, a choked sound caught in her throat.

It was a person. Or what remained of one. Its guts, a horrifying tangle of purple and red, were splayed across the floor as the three ravenous creatures dug their hands deep into the mangled torso. They pulled, tearing at the flesh with savageabandon, as dark, viscous blood dribbled down their chins, painting their putrid faces in a gruesome mask. They seemed utterly oblivious to (y/n)’s presence, not caring that she stood there, a silent, horrified witness to their unspeakablebanquet.

A wave of overwhelming nausea surged through (y/n). Her stomach roiled, a bitter churn of disgust and terror. Almost immediately, whatever meager food she might have consumed before her forced slumber on the operating table rebelled. She hunched over, her body wracked with violent spasms, as the half-digested contents of her stomach erupted in a foul-smelling mush and stinging acid. She wretched until only bitter bile clawed its way up her throat. Her body convulsed, desperate to expel the horror. Finally, she coughed, her throat raw and burning, her stomach still a queasy, trembling mess. With a renewed sense of urgency, she stumbled away from the ghastly scene, her legs still unsteady, leaving the room and its unspeakable inhabitants behind.

"Patient Zero has escaped! I repeat, Patient Zero has escaped!" a gruff, panicked male voice bellowed from the very room (y/n) had just fled. The words sent a cold, primal dread through her. Before she could even process the ominous announcement, two sharp, deafening gunshots cracked, echoing ominously throughout the sterile, seemingly endless halls of the hospital. (Y/n) instinctively glanced back at the room she'd just left, a knot of fear tightening in her chest.

Then, a rough, unyielding arm clamped down on her, seizing her with a brutal force that made her cry out.

"Patient Zero," a person in a dark, tactical military uniform growled, his voice low and menacing, as he yanked her backward. What the hell did "Patient Zero" even mean? And why was he so unnecessarily rough with her? When he tugged again, a sharp yelp escaped her lips, and she instinctively tried to pull away, her bare feet scrambling for purchase on the smooth tiles. She didn't know who this man was. Just because he wore a uniform didn’t make him trustworthy, or safe. When his grip tightened even further, becoming excruciating, a desperate resolve solidified within her. (Y/n) raised the medical knife, its cold steel a lifeline, and plunged it into his shoulder with all her remaining strength. The man cried out, a raw, surprised sound of pain, his grip instantly loosening.

It was all the chance (y/n) needed. She bolted, her bare feet slapping loudly against the cold, echoing tiles. She slammed open a heavy door that led to a darkened, uninviting stairway, its steps stretching into a shadowy abyss. Without a moment’s hesitation, she fled down the stairs, her breath ragged. Behind her, she heard the distinct sound of more heavy footsteps and angry voices, still addressing her as "Patient Zero," hot on her heels. Reaching what appeared to be the second floor of the hospital, she burst into an empty, silent room.

She slammed the door shut behind her, the heavy thud echoing ominously, and frantically began to barricade herself inside. Chairs and tables, haphazardly stacked, formed a makeshift, desperate barrier against the encroaching threat. (Y/n) held her breath, listening. Multiple sets of footsteps pounded past the room she was in, their sound fading down the hallway. Her shoulders slumped, a small, ragged sigh of relief escaping her trembling lips.

Looking to her left, she spotted a small, unexpected pile of discarded clothes and shoes in the corner, a beacon of hope in the desolate room. Then, she glanced down at her own vulnerable form, realizing with a fresh wave of discomfort that she was wearing nothing but her undergarments and the flimsy, revealing hospital gown. With a sense of urgency, (y/n) walked towards the pile, her eyes scanning the items, desperately searching for something, anything, to change into.

"I knew I wasn't the only person immune."

The husky whisper, thin and sharp in the oppressive silence, seemed to hang in the stale air of the abandoned hospital. The grim scenery had shifted, leaving the immediate, raw terror behind, replaced by an eerie, almost sacred stillness. In the vast, decaying cavern of the facility, a lone figure stood. She was perhaps five feet five or six inches tall, her silhouette a stark, unyielding line against the fading, sickly glow of the few remaining, flickering lights. The infected—those grotesque, shambling horrors that had once populated these desolate halls—now lay motionless, inert husks, their demise a chilling testament to this mysterious woman's deadly precision and unseen, brutal skills.

Her slender, pale, freckled fingers traced the frantic, desperate scrawl within a journal, undoubtedly left behind by the woman who had somehow endured the initial, horrific onslaught. A fierce, almost predatory glint sparked deep within her piercing emerald eyes, a raw, unyielding determination to track down this enigma—this other survivor who had been bitten, yet miraculously, impossibly, remained whole. The journal was more than just words; it was a tangible thread, a fragile hope connecting her to another unscathed soul in this ravaged world.

She tore her gaze from the journal's cryptic words, her eyes dropping to the skin of her own arm. There, beneath a dark, intricate tattoo, lay undeniable proof of her own immunity: a bite mark. It was a faded, gnarled indentation, the ghostly imprint of teeth barely visible, almost swallowed by the swirling ink. Her fingers, delicate yet firm, brushed over the subtle indent, a silent acknowledgment of the shared, terrifying ordeal.

"Ellie? Let's go."

You couldn’t see anything. At least register anything, everything was so…..loopy. Drugs? Did she drug you? Y/n wanted to scream. She wanted to stand up and pull away but her limbs felt like noodles. She felt like she just ran a marathon. Her head was pounding, and her stomach hurt. She’d had pills forced down her throat on an empty stomach. When was the last time she ate? Y/n leaned her head back looking up at the crumbling ceiling. Her head lying back on a pillow. Right…..she was laying on a bed, at least it wasn’t the cold floor anymore. The bed she was lying in did no good. Especially not with the unwanted touches of the familiar large hands. 

“This hurts me more than it hurts you.”

Bullshit

The familiar, Although distorted voice was recognizable. “You know I love you.” The voice spoke up a bit harsher this time the strong hands grabbing y/n’s face and turning her to face the culprit. Y/n opened her mouth to say something as she looked at the oppressor. The said culprit brought Y/n’s face closer. Kissing away the tears that y/n didn’t know she was releasing.

”It’s okay. I’m here now, if you’d listened to me this wouldn’t have happened-“

Y/n finally spoke up, regaining her voice, “A-Abby?”

The last bit of the sun's rays began to disappear. The moon was just barely peaking through the yellowish-orange hues that lingered in the dark blue sky. Y/n felt a chill crawl through her spine, the poor girl was soaked. Bodies lay crippled at her feet as she finally tore her eyes away from the breathtaking sky. The bow and arrow remained in her hands as she finally grew the strength to pull the arrow out of the motionless body. Just then she began to realize what she was soaked in. 

Blood

Right…..she’d killed her people. Seraphites. ‘It was either them or me. They already got to Sarah.’ 

Y/n thought to herself as she wretched another arrow out of an unknown skull. A breeze washed over y/n making her pull her blood soaked jacket closer to her. It would be dark out in less than an hour. The [hair color] haired woman knew staying out in the open like this would be a death sentence. 

You were quickly knocked out of your thoughts when the sound of a high pitched scream rang out nearby. It was too close to draw her bow out. The sound of quick running footsteps came from behind the [skin color] girl. Y/n was immediately knocked down, turning on her back quickly she narrowly missed the jaws of the undead. Y/n held its face back, its hands mindlessly swinging at y/n desperate to tear off a piece of your succulent flesh for it to devour. Within y/n’s peripheral vision she saw another one coming. Pulling her one free leg back she kicked its chest when it was close enough. The harsh blow making it stumble back while y/n focused on the infected on top of her. Her breathing quickened. It’s infected saliva dripping from its broken, cracked teeth and onto her shirt. Your free hand mindlessly searched the ground for anything. Something to defend yourself with. 

Y/n’s hand grazed one of her arrows. Her tired, sore fingers wrapped around the brittle wood. Some of the unsmoothed edges digging into her calloused hands as she squeezed it tightly. With a yell y/n shoved the arrow into the skull of the infected. The screaming from it ceasing as she drove it in deeper. The groans of the second infected were close. 

But you were stuck. 

The infected was too heavy, its limp body providing dead weight and pinning y/n down to the ground. 

This is it. 

Is this how you go?

Pathetic.  

Y/n’s eyes were trained on the jaw of the infected as it kneeled in front of her grabbing at her hair. Ready to take a bite. When suddenly one, then two gunshots went off and the infected went down. It’s body limp. It’s eyes open, cold and life less. No more groaning, yelling or gnashing of its teeth.

Y/n caught sight of a man, maybe of Hispanic descent in her peripheral vision. 

WLF

Just your luck. 

He grabbed the Infected off of y/n.  Before roughly grabbing her and pulling her up. His grip tight. Y/n was still in her Seraphite uniform so it was no surprise when she was slammed up against the brick, crumbling wall and interrogated. 

“Fuck you. I don’t know shit!” y/n finally barked out only to be met with curses in Spanish.

”Your friends. You shot them? Why?” He asked in a gruff voice. Hands tightening around your wrist. 

“They’re not my friends.” Y/n bit back harshly. “I’m not with the Seraphites anymore!” 

Only then did Y/n notice a second figure. Another man. “…..another traitor. We’ll take her with us.” he said in a low voice. 

“No….no! I havnt done shit!” Y/n yelled her gaze not noticing the way the Hispanic man lifted up his weapon. Y/n’s yelling ceased when the back end of the weapon hit the back of her head. He’s pistol whipped her. Y/n’s body going limp as everything went dark.

The camp was more lively than ever. An unknown woman sat up from her bed and groaned. Rolling her shoulders, her biceps flexing as she stood up. The Power Nap having done nothing to soothe the sore ache of her muscles. Her large room consisted of two beds. One which was empty as her roomie had gone out on patrol. The woman stood up, lacing up her boots before grabbing her empty water bottle and making her way out the room. 

Her combat boots were padded against the carpeted floor. The walls looked more neat compared to the walls on the outside. These ones were well kept. They’d found a way to make cement so every few months they’d refurbish what needed fixing. “Evening Abby.” A person greeted.

The girl named ‘Abby’ nodded in greeting. Opening a slightly rusted door that led to the stairwell. Her boots meeting the floor, creating an echo throughout the room. Her footsteps slowed when her eyes landed on her ex…..Owen. 

Abby didn’t spare him a glance as he was talking to his new girlfriend who gave the bigger woman a side eye. Most likely out of jealousy, or something else. “Uh…..Abby.” The male spoke up, tearing his eyes away from his current girlfriend. “Issac is looking for you. Told me to pass on the message.” Owen finished. 

It was silent for a moment, Abby’s footsteps having haulted for just a moment. She couldn’t find the right words for a response so she just nodded. Her fingers wrapping around the railing as she descended the flight of stairs. 

Once Abby made it to the second building after dodging multiple bodies that were either lined up for food, playing card games or rough housing she made her way into the building. She didn’t need to explain herself as the message had already been passed onto the guards. 

When the muscular woman stepped into the room the man named Isaac looked up from his desk. 

“…..You said you wanted more work.” Isaac spoke up standing up from his desk. That was true, ever since the break up between Abby and Owen she’d picked up more work. Most days she practically begged Isaac to assign her more work. Truth be told it was because she didn’t want to run into Owen. She wasn’t afraid of him or anything, not in a million years. It was just…..awkward running into him. Especially with his new girlfriend who was obviously pregnant. 

“There’s a girl. A scar…..I’m assuming she’s a traitor.” Isaac started off. “Talk to her. She seems valuable. If she seems trustworthy send her my way….if not you know what to do.” Issac spoke up. Before sitting back down at his desk. Papers scattered the old desk, a radio laid in the middle of it. He seemed to be fiddling with it. “She’s in the infirmary.” Isaac said.

Abby arched an eyebrow in confusion. “Why not put her in the room with the other Scars.” Abby questioned, mentioning the room they kept Scars they’d captured as prisoners. They were chained to pipes, beaten, battered and begging for death. But it wouldn’t be delivered. 

Issac looked up from the radio with an annoyed look on his face that his best soldier would question him. “She killed Scars. We could use her if we play our cards right.” Issac said, his tone leaving no more room for any more comments. Abby huffed. Nodding as she turned on her heel, her combat boots clicking against the tiles floors as she made her way out of the building. Abby’s eyes squinted as the sharp rays of sunlight hit her dialated pupils. 

Putting her hand up she shielded her eyes as she walked, letting her eyes adjust  to the light. She greeted a few people as she made her way to a separate building. Stepping in she could hear the sound of soft chatter. Dodging a few nurses she looked around for any unfamiliar faces until she saw one. Still asleep a girl laid on a cot. Her skin was a [skin color] color that contrasted with her bloodied clothes. Abby looked to the side to see a fresh pair of clothes neatly folded. Something that the girl may or may not be able to wear. 

She could still feel his blood on her. The blood of her comrades she worked with, the blood of Ivan. The gaze of his blood still lingered in his mouth. There was nothing left, only his half eaten head that lie in the ground. A horrified expression laid on his dead face. She didn’t feel that urge anymore. That burning sensation that told her to eat, eat, eat. 

She knew she didn’t want to. He gave her no choice!! He was out for her blood! He was out for her abilities! She was just big game to him. A long cat and mouse game that she was oblivious to playing. A bounty on her head! He only wanted the money, he was like all the other rotten humans in this world! All the dirty, disgusting, vermin-

A single drop was able to knock her from her thoughts. And then the camera flashing began as she stood at the foot of the plane. American press were taking pictures of her. Fans screamed her name, but y/n’s smile had not reached her eyes. For she held no pleasure in standing before these people. Her mother country, Brazil had sent their number one hero to help America. A oncoming agreement came from the two countries and a treaty was made. America gives them resources and money and they gave up…..her. But that did not mean she would abandon her past. Even if she were to live here for a few years before going back home. 

“[Hero Name]! How does it feel to be on American soil?!” One of the interviewers asked, shoving their mics in her face. They don’t really care, they wanted the money. They all only wanted money. 

Y/n’s eyes trailed down to meet the woman’s eyes. A flash of nervousness appeared within her irises. Her green eyes meeting y/n’s milky white ones. Y/n tilted her head to the side, examining if she even wanted to speak with the woman. “It feels just like home.” Y/n finally spoke up, flashing a polite smile towards the smaller woman. She stood at a tall height of 5’8, her form taller than most women she knew, and yet smaller than most men. 

“[hero name]! Can you describe your powers of being a Nokken?!” Another reporter questioned. Y/n’s hand twitched but no one batted an eye. They probably didn’t even notice. “A magician never reveals her tricks.” Y/n said in a happy tone. That same eye catching smile was forever carved in her face. And yet again her eyes did not match. But of course no human cared. Humans were easily deceived, they were easily eaten- 

‘Dont think like that.’ Y/n thought to herself. And almost immediately the attention was finally directed off of her. “It’s homelander!” A random person states the obvious. Y/n attempted to slink away but a strong arm wrapped around her shoulder. “Thank you for the love! But I wanted to welcome in the new hero everyone’s been raving about!” The blue eyed man exclaimed. Y/n made no attempt to look up at him, for she knew that if she did she might as well be provoked to hit him. And she doubted that would do anything. “Smile.” Homelander whispered but the muscles in y/n’s face remained locked in. A neutral expression on her face as she made eye contact with reporters. She wouldn’t be a fraud like the man above her was. 

“Thank you for the warm welcome but I best be going homelander. Maybe we’ll cross paths again.” Y/n says loud enough for the reporters to hear as y/n smiles and begins to be escorted out of the airport.

The cool air hit her. Rain drops fell from the sky, turning her once [skin color] skin into a sickly grey. Her hair turning into an inky black color. She was not only a water based supe but an air one as well. The combination brought on many fans and onlookers that wished to be her. Or dispise her. 

“You left in a hurry.” That same familiar voice echoed throughout the empty streets. People were off the roads due to the storm. Y/n looked over her shoulder, this time her milky white eyes meeting his bright blue ones. “Was I supposed to linger?” Y/n questioned, turning her body towards him. She stood tall, her form didn’t look weak. 

“Not necessarily, just….unusual.” He replied. “Usually supes stick around to talk to the number one hero in the world.” 

“In America.” Y/n replied, slightly cutting him off. 

“Pardon?” He questioned. The smile on his face was fake. It didn’t reach his eyes, it looked like a mask. A horrible one at that. 

“You are the number one hero in America. Who’s to say the world when you haven’t even stepped out of it before?” Y/n questioned. Homelander gave y/n an annoyed look. “Anyway Mr retriever, I best get going.”

”Mr retriever?” Homelands questioned, he took off one of his gloves in order to get the water out of it. 

“You look like one.” Y/n spoke as she patted his arm whilst walking past him. Homelandee furrowed his eyebrows. Who does this girl think she is? He’s number one- 

The worst thing about this job was the aftermath of missions. The one thing y/n didn’t like was having to stay in one place after getting shot. The darker toned woman sat down, her leg throbbing. She was just thankful that it stopped bleeding. Unbeknownst to her, y/n’s captain stood around the corner. Y/n had gone on a solo mission, it was completed with no casualties but she did pay the price by getting shot. Although the bullet went straight through, price knew she wouldn’t be on her feet for a few days, maybe even weeks.

Outside he stood holding a sugary treat. Something y/n had told him she liked on their ‘date’. He fiddled with the packaged candy in his hands. Contemplating on going inside of her room, but just as he decided to do so, he heard y/n’s phone ring.

Looking down at her phone y/n saw her father’s contact name. Without waisting any time she answered it, putting it on speaker so she could changer her bandages. “Hey dad.” Y/n spoke first as she grabbed the roll of bandages and disinfected. “Y/n, sweetie….are you okay?” He asked. His voice sounding worried. Y/n only brushed it off as him being worried because of her wound. Word travels fast within the military.

“Yes dad….the bullet went through my leg. I should be back on my feet in two weeks or so.” The sound of bandages opening filled the silence as her father didn’t say anything in return. After a few moments he finally spoke up.

“No….thats too long. I’ll have one of my men come get you.” He said in almost a rushed tone.

“My wound isn’t that bad. I’m taking care of it and-“

“Not the wound y/n. I want you to stay away from Price.” General l/n spoke over y/n. Like a commander, barking orders at his subordinates. “Dad…Price isn’t that bad. He’s can be a little rough around the edges but he’s not bad.” Y/n said as she finished pouring the disinfectant alcohol over the wound.

“Y/n….Price has been looking into you. He’s stalking you. I want you out of that squad immediately.” Y/n furrowed her eyebrows as she hauled her movements. Sure…it was normal to look into someone. Y/n had looked into Price to see what he’d accomplished to get in the role of a captain but that was it. “Dad….thats normal. Maybe I’ve been late to a meeting or-“

“Stop making excuses for that man….ill tell you what. If I get you stone hard proof, you leave that squad with now argument. Okay?”

Y/n sighed as she wrapped her leg. Making sure not to put it on too tight. “Dad, I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

Y/n paused. She wasn’t sure how he’d react to this. “He’s my soulmate. I found out a while ago and-“

“You don’t think to tell me?” General l/n’s voice was softer this time. He seemed more understanding of the situation. “If I had known I wouldn’t have had made a big fuss.”

“It’s alright. I know you’re only looking out for me.” Y/n replied. As she finished tiring off the bandages.

“I still don’t trust him. My parents were soulmates and my father killed my mother, but you know that already. Don’t drop your guard just because he’s your soulmate.” Y/n’s father started. “Just because he loves you, doesn’t mean he won’t hurt you. Treat him just like any other man you’d come across.”

He was right. Loving someone dosn’t always mean you’re compatible or vise versa. “Okay..”

“Promise me.” General l/n’s voice grew stern.

“I promise.”

“And make sure you carry a gun on your dates.” Y/n’s father advised.

“I already do. No need to remind me.” Y/n said as she rolled her eyes.

“I’m just making sure you’re safe. You’re my only daughter.”

Y/n smiled at that. “I’ll be safe…..” There was a small silence between the two of them until he spoke up. “Alright then. Well I have to get back to work. Don’t cause too much trouble, I love you.”

Y/n laughed as she told him she loved him before he hung up. Sitting in silence, y/n thought about what he said. Even though she brushed it off she couldn’t help but be a bit wary of John.

A knock on her door startled her from her thoughts. Pushing those bad feeling away she called out. “Come in.”

The door opened, revealing John. He was in nothing but a blue shirt and khaki pants. His hand holding up y/n’s favorite sweet treat.

“I…heard you got injured. So I got you this.” He said, holding it up. Y/n’s eyes trailed over to the sweet treat. A grin carved on her face, giving price the green light to step into the room. He closed the door behind him before handing Y/n the sweet treat. Y/n’s fingers wrapped around the packaging. She thanked him with a smile as she tore open the wrapping paper like a child that had just been gifted candy.

“Is the medication working?” Price asked, trying to make small talk as he sat in the chair that was beside Y/n’s bed. He got comfortable in the chair. It was obvious he planned on staying a while.

“Not really.” Y/n said truthfully. “The medicine here dosn’t really work on me.”

John looked at y/n curiously. “Why is that?”

Y/n let out a nervous chuckle, as she leaned back into her pile of pillows that propped her up. “I didn’t grow up in a stable nehiborhood. My parents worked so much that I was sent to live with family members that weren’t so great. I picked up some bad habits if you know what I mean.” Y/n stated. “I’m clean now, but I still have a high tolerance for it.”

John nodded. He didn’t seem disgusted or disappointed. He seemed grateful that y/n told him. “I appreciate you telling me.” He said honestly. Unfortunately for y/n he only appreciated that y/n told him about it so he can up her dosage. If she hadn’t told him then he would have been confused as to why she hadn’t passed out after eating the snack he spiked.

The base was quiet, your angered yells no longer filled the corridor. The harsh banging of the doors ceased, like still waves after a storm. It was almost too quiet. This prompted Makarov to get up from his comfortable office chair that was way to expensive to just be an office chair. Making his way down the halls he was oblivious to the dead body that was on the first floor. Your body hunched over it, pulling a pistol from it.

As he opened your shared bedroom confusion washed over him. He looked at the room that was only missing your presence. Anger over took its place. Your suitcase was still there but your backpack and immediate essentials were gone. You’d gotten up and left.

He slammed the door shut, shouting commands to his Russian soldiers. He would turn this place upside down if need be. He couldn’t let you go, he wouldn’t allow it. He’d become too attached to your presence. You knew his secrets, you knew that he wasn’t always a cold hearted monster. His enemies would try and take you, pull information out of you.

And unfortunately for you, that’s exactly what they did.

Y/n ran down the empty streets. The muscle memory in her body kicking in as her legs strengthened after being pampered for so long. She sped up, occasionally patting her pocket to make sure the plane ticket was still in her pocket.

It seemed as if she were running for a while. Twenty? No…maybe thirty minutes? Y/n couldn’t call a taxi, the people in these parts of town knew who Makarov was. They knew that y/n was his ‘woman’ and would immediately report it.

She was on her own.

As y/n rounded the corner she finally crossed into the next town. The airport was within sight. As she began to near it she realized that a car had passed her three-no…four times. Ane cursed under her breath, making a sharp turn into an alleyway where a large man tackled her down.

“Het the hall off of me!” Y/n sneered at the person in Russian, pulling out a pistol she’d looted from the dead body of the Russian soldier. Pressing the barrel against his stomach she put her finger on the trigger.

The two struggled on the ground, grabbing her wrist he pulled it out from under him but the gunshot rang out. Going straight through his arm.

“Fuckin hell lass!” He cursed in English. His Scottish accent was noticeably making y/n’s eyes glance down at at the flag that was on his vest.

Oh…..he was apart of the uk military

Immediately he grabbed her wrist, twisting it, forcing her to drop the gun. “I….I thought you were one of his men.”

The sound of multiple other pairs of footsteps reached her ears. “Shit…I-I didn’t mean it.” Y/n spoke in a distressed manner. Her hands covering the wound, pressing down to stop the bleeding.

“Tis’ fine.” He groaned, putting his hand on top of yours to press down harder. From her peripheral vision she could see three other men. She removed one hand, reaching for her gun. Well…until her wrist was grabbed harshly. She yelped in pain as it was twisted behind her back and she was pulled away from the unknown man.

“Where’s Makarov?” A deep, rough voice barked out.

“If you think I’m going back there then you’re wrong! Get the hell off of me!” Y/n sneered at the bearded man. “You ought to kill me before taking me back to him.”

There was a small silence. “You’re not with Makarov?” A dark skinned man asked, he crouched down beside you. “No! Of course not. I’m trying to get away from him and if he finds you with me he’ll kill all of you.” Y/n said in a rushed tone, she tried to wiggle out of the man’s grasp but he kept a strong grip on her.

“You’re still comin with us-“

“Like hell I am! I havnt done shit” Y/n barked at the bearded man.

“We can still put you behind bars for illegal underground fighting.” The man threatened, pulling y/n up to her feel.

“Captain be gentle with the little lady.” The wounded man spoke, getting up to his feet as well. His bleeding had stopped.

The man known as ‘Captain’ only shot his wounded team member a look before nudging y/n to get into the vehicle. He grumbled something along the lines of ‘Soap being soft of pretty women.’

Russia was bound to be cold. That, y/n knew. But she didn’t expect it to rain so hard. The dark, cloudy skies provided her a way to maneuver in the dark. A sharp dagger she’d taken from Makarov was hidden in her pocket as she pressed her back up against the wall. A pair of footsteps came closer to her, prompting the darker skinned woman to pull out her weapon. Her trained fingers gripping onto the dagger tightly.

Bending her knees she watched the floor to see a shadows from the man. Once she did she waited a few more seconds before lunging out and driving the knife into the guards throat skillfully. Twisting the knife she pulled it out, letting the man that was twice her size fall to the floor. She crouched down, searching the guard. To her luck she found a gun on him, some money and a key card. Looking around, her hands gripped the guards legs, dragging him into the dark and hiding the body within the shadows.

Y/n would have to move quick. It’d only be a matter of time before Makarov realized that his ‘loving’ girlfriend was gone. Y/n’s cheek still stung from the harsh slap she’d received from Makarov during their argument earlier.

Y/n could remember the anger she’d harbored for some time. She was in their shared room- or now Makarov’s room. It was the third time Makarov slept with y/n without giving her any type of aftercare. The bruises on her body ached and tears welled up in her eyes but she held them back. She would not cry over something like this. For the last year it felt as if Makarov no longer cared for the poor girl. He was always at meetings, making deals and killing civilians. So y/n did what she did best. She packed up and got ready to leave.

“And where are you going?” Y/n’s movements didn’t stop as she calmly folded the pair of pants. “Somewhere.” Y/n said vaguely which only made the males eyebrows furrow in annoyance.

“You’re not leaving.” Makarov said as he leaned on the doorway, preventing y/n from leaving.

“I am and I will.” Y/n retorted as she opened her bedside drawer and pulled out a dagger that Makarov had personalized just for her. He did it to teach her how to fight, not knowing that her parents used to make her fight within an underground arena as the young age of sixteen. It was illegal, and under the table. No one put it on any of her records, it was something to be buried in her ‘past life’.

“Why is that? You have everything you need here. I give you everything you could ever want. Jewelry, I take you to high class restaurants, galas…anywhere you wanted to go I’ve taken you to. So why leave?” Makarov was partially right. He spent copious amounts of money. But y/n don’t want the money.

“It….feels like you don’t care for me anymore.” Y/n whispered as she stood up from kneeling beside the dresser, stuffing the dagger in her pocket. She flinched when Makarov’s arms snaked around her waist. He pushed her braids away from the side of her neck. The hickeys on her neck from last night were still fresh. “And you think that because…?” Makarov trailed off, waiting for you to answer as he kissed your neck. It was the most affection he’d given you in weeks, that didn’t involve in sex.

“You’re no longer affectionate with me. Anything that dosn’t involve sleeping with me you don’t want to do. You’re aggressive and overprotective to the point I feel as if I’m suffocating.” Y/n said honestly. Makarov’s grip tightened.

“You know I’m busy-“

“But you’re free to fuck me every other day?” Y/n cut him off. Her tone surprised him. His manipulation tactics were no longer working.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Makarov asked as he kissed your cheek. “You know I’d drop everything for you.” He whispered tenderly, his hands going under your shirt. Y/n already knew where this was going. She immediately shook him off. “This is what I’m talking about! You’re insufferable!-“

She hadn’t even realized what had happened until this sharp noise had echoed throughout the air. Her cheek throbbing in pain. But she didn’t react, she was in shock. Makarov never put his hands on her before.

Immediately he took his chance. Pushing y/n up against the wall, he grabbed her face tightly. Putting pressure on the tender spot. Making y/n wince.

“You will listen and you will listen close.” Makarov growled, pushing his body up against her own. “Yell at me again and I will cut your tongue. If you even speak about leaving me again I will cut your tongue. Do I make myself clear?” When y/n didn’t answer Makarov snatched the dagger from within her pocket, putting the cold metal up against her throat. “Do. I. Make. Myself. Clear?” He asked darkly to which y/n nodded slowly. Makarov pushed her head into the wall, making a loud thudding noise as the back of her skull came in contact with the wall. Y/n didn’t cry out in pain, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he hurt her.

As Makarov turned to leave, y/n swift and nimble hands pulled out the spare dagger he had on his thigh holster, efficiently hiding it as he slammed the door shut.

And that’s why she was here now. Taking one more look around her surroundings, y/n stood up from her position next to the dead body and maneuvered within the shadows. The bloodied knife and pistol now in her grasp as she moved thought the base. She almost forgot what it was like to live like this. All the years of being pampered by Makarov almost made her forget what it’s like to be in the run, to fend for your life.