#turned!reader

You’ve been seeing them.

Not clearly. Not directly.

But it’s there. That prickling between your shoulders. The faint scent of dried flowers in places where no flowers should be. Strange offerings—notes, shiny things, half-rotted Polaroids with the faces scratched out, a scarf you swore you lost two cities ago now neatly folded on top of your ration pack.

You’re being followed.

Stalked.

Watched.

But the strangest part?

You don’t feel afraid.

Not exactly.

Not yet.

You find the first note three days after the arcade.

Tucked into the hollowed skull of a long-dead runner, its paper edges curled like petals, ink smeared with care. You hesitate before touching it, unsure why your fingers tremble. You haven’t seen handwriting like this in months. Too slow. Too human.

The message is short:

I saw you limping. Left you something in the back stairwell. It’s not much, but it’s soft. You always loved soft things. —Yours

You turn the note over, half-expecting a signature. There’s none. But taped to the back is a bit of fabric—plush. Purple. Familiar.

Your old hoodie’s sleeve?

You blink and look around, half expecting someone to laugh and pop out of the shadows with a camera.

Nothing.

Just wind and ruin.

Just the echo of your own name whispered through brick and dust.

That night, you don’t sleep well.

You dream of the safehouse tunnel. The one that collapsed. You dream of dragging someone out of the pile, coughing, shaking, their face smeared with ash and blood, and you remember the way they clung to you like your hands were the last light in the world.

But you can’t remember their face.

Only that they didn’t scream when the scanners went red.

Only that you let them go.

You wake up sweating, hand on your crowbar, heart pounding so hard it drowns out the moaning of the horde outside the barricade.

You think you hear someone crying.

But when you sit up, it’s gone.

Day four, there’s another note—left near your fire pit this time.

Folded into a tiny triangle. Stuck between the teeth of a dismembered mannequin.

You pry it loose.

I saw what they did to the last camp. You made it out. I’m proud of you. But your leg’s getting worse. I’ll fix it. You can rest when I find you. I’ll carry you.

There’s a flower pressed between the folds—Hollow Pine bloom again, radiant and unnatural, edges glowing like veins in moonlight.

Your mouth goes dry.

You pocket it anyway.

You start changing your route.

Backtracking. Making false trails.

But they follow.

You leave a can of tuna as a test—placed on a pile of bricks near the collapsed freeway. Hours later, it’s still there, unopened… but now it’s sitting on a folded square of newspaper, like it’s been served to you.

Next to it is a scarf. Yours again.

Someone’s laundering your clothes.

You tell yourself it’s a rogue survivor. Maybe one of the Runners messing with you.

But you’ve seen Runners.

They don’t leave notes.

They don’t press flowers.

They don’t fold blankets over your pack while you sleep and tuck a piece of chocolate in your pocket like they remember what brand you used to like.

It’s getting personal.

It’s always been personal.

The sixth night, you find a message scrawled on the window of an overturned bus, written in some kind of slick, sticky ink that glistens faintly under UV.

You shine your flashlight on it.

YOUR HANDS SHOOK WHEN YOU HELD ME. I STILL FEEL IT. DID YOU MEAN IT?

You stumble back, breath catching.

How could they know that?

You press your palm to the glass. It leaves a smear.

You sit in the bus and wait.

But no one comes.

When you finally speak to them, it’s accidental.

You’re rounding the corner of a broken hallway, sidearm drawn, when a voice—clear and low—croons from above:

“You dropped something, sweetheart.”

It’s calm. Polite. Warm in a way that shouldn’t exist in this world anymore.

You spin and spot a figure perched on the remains of a collapsed floor above—tall, stylish in a weird, DIY way. Their face is obscured by a broken lens-mask. Their skin is sickly but smooth, veins black and glowing faintly along their throat and wrists. They toss you something.

Your lighter.

The one you lost near the canal three weeks ago.

Your blood goes cold.

They tilt their head.

“You used to flick it open five times before lighting it. I always liked that.”

Your grip on the pistol tightens.

“Who are you?”

They pause.

Their voice cracks a little when they answer, like it hurts.

“You don’t remember me.”

There’s silence.

Then a hollow, trembly laugh. A buried sob.

“That’s okay. I remember enough for both of us.”

And before you can ask anything else—they’re gone. Slipped between concrete and night like a ghost.

You don’t see them again for two more days.

But the gifts return.

A scarf. A new set of boots. Bandages. A handmade trinket in the shape of a crow.

And a final note:

When you love someone this much, it doesn’t rot. Not even here. Not even me.

You don’t sleep after that.

You wait.

Crowbar by your side.

And maybe… maybe you’re not entirely afraid anymore.

Just curious.

And something else you won’t name.

Not yet.

 You Make Me Feel Human (Even When I’m Not)

You find them again in the ruins of the old arcade.

Their heartbeat gave them away before their boots did—sharp, nervous thumps fluttering like moths in your ears. You hear them even now, beyond the brick wall, pacing near the broken vending machines. Fidgeting. Maybe reloading. Maybe chewing their nails again like they always do when they’re scared.

You adore that about them. Their little flaws. Their fragile routines. The way they cling to patterns—like patterns will protect them from chaos.

You press your rotted hand to the wall. You can almost feel their warmth through it.

It makes your skull ache.

Your body trembles once, violently. The thing inside you stirs. It doesn’t speak—it never needs to. It just pushes.

Pushes when you're close to meat.

Pushes when you bleed.

Pushes now, when you think of them.

But you resist. You always do. You’re not like the others.

Not mindless.

Not hungry.

Not anymore.

You still remember your name.

You still remember theirs.

You remember how they saved you once—dragged you out of the pile of twitching corpses after the tunnel collapse, bleeding, screaming, holding a rusted crowbar like it was a torch. They didn’t know you were one of “them” then. You hadn’t cracked open yet. Not fully.

You could still pass. You could still lie.

They held your hand all the way to the quarantine line.

They didn’t let go even when the scanners screamed red.

They didn’t kill you.

No one ever loved you before that moment.

And now they’re here again—alone. Just like before.

Maybe they’re searching for meds.

Maybe for you.

You like to think it’s the latter. You like to think they miss your voice. That deep down, they knew.

That when you left them... it hurt.

You slide into the shadow of the prize counter, crawling like smoke over broken tile. The light from the cracked neon sign glints off the brass buttons you sewed onto your jacket—the same one they gave you, back when your skin didn’t glow with black veins. You made it work. You’re stylish, still.

Ripped sleeves.

Rust-dyed scarves.

A mask of cracked sunglasses and a shattered makeup mirror strapped to your jaw. You made it yourself.

They used to call it “zombie-chic.” You called it armor.

They laughed.

You loved that sound.

You hear them curse now. Low. Sharp. Metal-on-metal as they pry open a register. A cough.

The sound of them breathing is... too much.

You lick your lips—dry, cracked, peeling—and press a hand to your chest.

“No,” you whisper to the other you, the monster curled beneath your ribcage. “They’re not food.”

It snarls in return.

Not in words, just instinct. An itch behind your eyes. A pulse in your fingers.

You tighten your gloves.

You peek around the corner.

There they are.

Same hair. Same profile. Same soft curve of jaw and wild look in their eyes like they don’t quite believe they’ve survived this long. Their shoulders sag like they’re always expecting a bullet.

You want to run to them. Wrap your arms around their trembling spine and tell them you never stopped thinking about them. Never stopped watching.

That the others didn’t deserve their attention. That you kept them safe. Cleared paths for them. Took care of threats. Followed them across cities just to be near.

They wouldn’t understand.

Not yet.

Your claws twitch.

You sigh and retreat back into the dark.

They’re not ready.

But you are.

You always are.

You wait until they’re done looting. They leave out the front, bootsteps echoing off waterlogged carpet and shattered glass. You follow, just far enough to see the backs of their heels vanish into the sunset-glow of the ruined street.

You trail them like a shadow—always have.

Tonight, though… you’ll leave a message.

You return to the prize wall. Scraps of faded tickets cling to rusted shelves. You tear a few pages from an old arcade ledger and use the edge of a broken claw to scratch out a note.

The letters are messy. Shaky.

But legible.

They’ll recognize your handwriting.

It reads:

YOU DROPPED THIS. YOUR SMILE. I’LL BRING IT BACK TONIGHT.

You sign it with your old name.

You tuck a dried flower into the page. One of those weird glowing ones from the Hollow Pines. They glow like veins. You thought it was romantic.

You know they’ll find it.

You hope they blush.

Because that’s the thing about you now. You're not just rot and rage and teeth.

You're still you.

Just... enhanced.

Better.

And you’ll protect them.

From the feral things. From the world. From the other you that claws its way up your throat when you get too close. The one that screams for warm flesh and won’t stop until it tastes them.

No. Not yet.

Not until they say “I love you” back.

Then?

Then they’re yours.

Forever.