#resi

Inside the precinct, the fluorescent lights buzz like angry wasps. The weapons locker room smells like gun oil and stale air, the scent clinging to the floor like an afterthought. You're wedged between a shelf of ammo boxes and the cold metal wall, your knee screaming at you with every shift of weight. The pain digs in sharply and deeply, worse today than usual. Stress can cause it to flare; your doctor always reminds you.

Footsteps echo down the hallway outside- heavy, purposeful. Not the stumbling shuffle of those… things. Someone alive. Someone who could be armed, fuck. The door creaks open, and suddenly there’s a gun barrel leveled at your face. Behind it, blue eyes narrow. "Jesus Christ," the cop, Leon, whose badge reflects his name, exhales sharply. "You planning on shooting me with that?" he asks, nodding at the pistol limp in your hand.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. "Only if you make me," you mutter, but your grip on the gun doesn’t tighten. It can’t. Your fingers ache too much. Leon holsters his own weapon slowly, eyes flicking from your face to your braced leg. "Yeah," he says after a beat. "You look like hell.”

The fluorescent light catches the sweat on his brow as he crouches beside you, close enough that you smell the scent of smoke and iron clinging to his jacket. "Leg’s fucked?" he asks, blunt. You huff a laugh filled with half pain, half disbelief, but before you can answer, the distant screech of something inhuman echoes down the hall. Leon’s jaw clenches. "We need to move."

His hand wraps around your forearm, firm but careful, and for a second, you just stare at the contrast, his fingers, steady and warm, against your shaking ones. Then he pulls you up, and the world tilts. Pain lances up your thigh like a live wire, and you bite back a whimper. "Easy," Leon murmurs, shifting his grip to your waist. "I got you.”

The self-deprecating protest slips out before you can stop it: "I’m too heavy." His grip tightens just a fraction—not enough to bruise, but enough to ground you. "No, you’re not," he says, voice low. 

You take a step-just one, and your knee buckles. You don’t hit the ground; Leon’s arm snakes around your torso, hauling you back against him. His heartbeat thuds against your shoulder blade, fast but steady. "Don’t fight the pain," he orders, voice rough. "Use me as a crutch." The command sends a shiver down your spine, damn, for such a pretty, young face, he’s bossy.

The hallway stretches ahead, flickering lights illuminating streaks of blackened blood on the tiles. Leon moves with you, step by agonizing step, his body shielding yours from the open doors lining the corridor. Every shuffle sends pain ricocheting through you, but his voice cuts through it: "Look at me. Not at the floor, just me."

And you do. His eyes are impossibly blue in the dim light, pupils blown wide with adrenaline. You focus on the heat of his palm pressed into your hip, the way his thumb rubs absent circles into your skin because your pink sweater has ridden up, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. The next step comes easier. "There you go," he murmurs, lips almost touching your pierced ear. "That’s it."

The screech comes again, closer this time, wet and guttural. Leon flinches, and his fingers dig into your side, and you realize, he’s scared too. "Left turn ahead," he says, steering you toward a hallway’s corner. "Thirty seconds, then we run." You nod, but your breath hitches when his free hand slides up to cradle the back of your neck. Your head must be jostling too much. "Thirty seconds," he repeats, softer. "And then you scream if you have to. I’ll carry you."

You swallow hard, pulse hammering where his fingertips press into your throat. The air smells like copper and damp concrete, but beneath it, beneath the rot, you catch the faintest hint of his cologne. Something reckless coils in your gut. "Promise?" you ask, half-teasing, half-serious. Leon’s mouth twitches. "Try me," he dares, just as something heavy slams into the door down the hall.

Time fractures. Leon’s grip turns ironclad, yanking you forward as the thing howls behind you. Your knee screams, but his arm locks around your waist, lifting you just enough that your toes skim the ground. You don’t even have time to scream.

Because what the actual fuck is that thing?

"Run," he shouts—not a request, again. And you do the best you can to, clinging to him like a lifeline as the world dissolves into chaos and heat and his ragged breaths against your curls plastered to your cheek from sweat.

The doorway swallows you both, cramped and reeking of mildew. Leon slams you against the wall, not roughly, but with precision, his body a barricade between you and the horror shambling past. His thigh presses against your aching leg, but the pain barely registers now. In another circumstance, you’d blush at how protective he’s being. But this isn’t another circumstance, and tonight, the dead somehow walk.

Silence stretches, taut as a wire. Then, distant, the creature’s footsteps fade. Leon exhales, forehead dropping to yours for a heartbeat. "Told you I’d carry you," he murmurs, and the smirk in his voice is nothing but boyish charm. You shove at his chest, weakly, but he catches your wrist, moving it back to your side. "Uh-uh, pretty girl," he chides, nose tip almost brushing yours. "Say thank you first."

You want to snap something sharp, about his ego, his timing, but instead, breathless, you blurt: "Thanks." His grin falters. For a second, he just stares, blue eyes wide like he’s never been genuinely thanked before. Then he clears his throat, releasing your wrist. "Yeah," he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. "Don’t mention it."

The main hall looms ahead, its grand staircase littered with debris. Leon hauls you up the steps, one arm hooked under your knees. The wound on your leg throbs, blood soaking through the makeshift bandage. "Gotta clean that," he says, nodding toward the officer’s desk. You hiss as he lowers you onto its surface, but his hands are steady when he rolls up your pant leg. "Hold still," he warns, threading a needle from a scavenged first-aid kit.

When did he find that? Man, the pain is getting to you.

The needle bites, but his fingers, calloused but careful, press a damp cloth to the wound first. "Breathe through it," he reminds you, and you do, staring at the way his lashes catch the flickering light. The stitches pull tight, but his thumb brushes your calf after each one, a silent apology. Outside, something wails. Leon doesn’t flinch. "Almost done," he promises, voice low. "Then we get the hell out of here."

The parking garage yawns beneath the precinct, its concrete ribs dripping with condensation. Leon shoulders your weight effortlessly now, his steps deliberate as he navigates the wrecked patrol cars. You limp beside him, but his grip on your waist never falters. "Here," he murmurs, guiding you behind an overturned van. The engine block still radiates residual heat, and you sag against it, exhaling sharply as your leg protests. Leon crouches, rifling through a discarded duffel. "Ammo," he mutters, tossing you a fresh magazine. "And this." A protein bar lands in your lap, its wrapper smeared with grime. “It’ll do for now,” he grumbles, looking for supplies in the overturned van. 

You tear into it, the taste like sawdust and salt, but Leon’s watching the ramp leading upstairs, his jaw tight. "We can’t stay," he says finally, turning back to you. His gaze drops to your leg, then flicks up, assessing. "But we can’t run either. Not yet." You nod, swallowing the last bite. "So we steal a car," you offer, nodding toward the rows of vehicles. Leon’s mouth quirks. "You? Hotwire a cruiser?" He leans in, shaking his head in amusement. “With your whole frilly thing you got going on?”

You want to take offense, but he’s right; you don’t even know where to start. 

The garage groans around you, pipes shuddering overhead. Leon’s hand finds yours, squeezing once before he stands. "Rest five more minutes," he orders, but his thumb traces over your manicured nails, gentle, lingering. Then he’s moving, checking the nearest sedan’s doors with quiet efficiency. You watch him, the way his shoulders tense at every distant sound, the way he glances back at you like he’s counting the seconds you're out of safety’s reach. The van’s metal digs into your back, but for the first time since the world ended, the pain feels secondary. Maybe the end of the world isn’t so bad.

"You’re weirdly good at this," you blurt, wincing at your own phrasing. Leon pauses mid-crouch by the sedan’s window, eyebrows lifting. "At what? Grand theft auto?" You snort, shifting your weight. "At surviving. At-" you gesture vaguely at the makeshift splint on your leg and the stitches he did earlier, "knowing what to do." He exhales sharply, almost a laugh, but his eyes darken. "First day on the job," he admits, voice rough. "Guess the academy covered more than just traffic stops."

Something in his tone makes your chest ache. You picture him—rookie badge gleaming, crisp uniform, stepping into this nightmare. "And you just… stayed?" you press, softer now. Leon’s jaw works. He doesn’t look at you when he answers. "Heard the call about civilians trapped in the east wing." The sedan door clicks open under his hands. "Didn’t realize the only ‘civilians’ left meant one smartass girl with a death wish."

You’re halfway through a retort when the air shifts behind him, too fast, too silent. Your throat locks. Leon reads your widening eyes a second too late. A massive hand clamps around his shoulder, yanking him backward into a hulking silhouette. "Leon-!" His name tears from your lips as some large, dark, tall creature- you think it’s a creature- lifts him clean off the ground like he weighs nothing, those dead eyes fixed on you over Leon’s thrashing form.

Your fingers scramble over cracked concrete, closing around a rusted pipe. Pain screams up your leg as you lunge forward, swinging wildly. The metal connects with a sickening crack against the thing’s skull. It staggers, just enough, and Leon wrenches free, gasping for air. "Flashbang! Move!" he barks, already pulling the pin from his belt. You barely cover your eyes before the world whites out in a deafening roar. Your ears ring, and the horrifying noise echoes off the corners of your brain.

Blinded, you feel his hand seize yours, dragging you as you stumble toward the garage exit. "Move!" Leon shouts over the ringing in your ears. Behind you, the creature bellows, but the sound is drowned by the screech of door hinges as Leon kicks open a fire door. Sunlight stabs your vision. 

The street is a graveyard of overturned cars and shattered glass, but Leon doesn’t slow, steering you toward a storefront with its sign hanging crooked—"The Kendo Gun Shop," the faded letters read. The door gives way with a splintering crack under his boot. Inside, dust motes swirl in the dim light, settling on glass display cases still crammed with handguns and hunting knives. Finally, some good fortune for both of you.

Leon braces you against the counter, his breath ragged. Then, unexpectedly, he laughs, sharp and startled. "You clocked that bastard with a pipe," he says, shaking his head. His thumb swipes blood from your cheekbone. "Thought you were just some stranded civvie with a smart mouth." His grin is all teeth, dangerous and bright. "Didn’t realize you packed a punch too."

You flex your aching fingers, glancing at the pipe still clutched in your grip. "Surprise," you deadpan. His chuckle fades into something quieter, appreciative. "Yeah," he murmurs, nudging a box of 9mm rounds toward you with his boot. "Pleasant one."

Leon moves through the store like a stormfront, methodically picking up supplies that both of you can use. He tosses you a fresh holster, then pauses by the register, shoulders tensing. Outside, glass crunches under something heavy. You both freeze. His hand twitches toward his sidearm, but when the footsteps fade, he exhales through his nose. "Guess I'm not just some civvie, and you're not just some quarterbacking rookie," you joke, when the tension in the air eases.

He shoots you a look, half exasperation, half amusement, as he shoves a combat knife into your palm. "You can barely walk, take it easy," he reminds you, thumb brushing your wrist. He nods toward the alley door, sunlight slicing through its broken window. "You ready to get the hell out of here?"