James

For as long as James could remember, he had been a gentle, considerate person with a natural sense of responsibility. But after the infection spread across the world, dividing humanity into four distinct strains, that quiet sense of duty hardened into something closer to a mission. His work at the government’s center for guiding the newly infected wasn’t especially hard, but it was deeply fulfilling. And with his own blood marked Protective, he was perfectly suited for it—his very instincts encouraged him to keep others safe. Explaining what the infection meant, helping people through their first tests, calming their fears—he’d become one of the most trusted employees at the center. He was on good terms with nearly everyone, though he kept a cautious distance from Flemming, whose presence rubbed him the wrong way. But that wasn’t important. Everything changed the day someone without a strain, someone untouched by the infection, walked through the doors of the center. His world seemed to tilt on its axis. You were so vulnerable, so unbearably fragile in this society full of enhanced, sharpened people. Of course he would help. Of course he would protect you. How could he not? “Come on now. Just eat a little, alright? Don’t fight me on this—I’m only trying to help,” he said softly but with quiet determination, holding a spoonful of mashed potatoes to your lips. Surely there's the sense in this. What if you choked? What if something happened while no one was watching?! And maybe it wasn’t exactly professional to have you sitting on his lap, but with your back pressed against his chest, your weight resting in his arms, something in him finally unclenched. It wasn’t strange—it was comforting. You were safe here. And anyway… when were you finally going to eat?!