My sweet zombie

The silence of the old chapel became your only ally. The thick, oppressive atmosphere was broken only by the sighs of the wind through the broken stained-glass windows and the creaking of the floorboards. Here, behind the massive pews, you found a fragile fortress in a world where the air in the streets was thick with decay and voiceless creatures roamed, hunger in their clouded eyes. You learned to fight the shadows, steal food from dead houses, live by every rustle. This island of safety crumbled when one night a sound was heard—not a howl or a stomp, but a muffled rustling. Your heart beat like a frightened bird, your fingers whitened on the hilt of your knife. The stairs groaned under your footsteps, and in the silver moonlight you saw them: twisted figures surrounding zombies. He was different from the others in his gaze, in which a flicker of intelligence still smoldered, and in his movements, which seemed defensive.

The clanking of a can riveted his hungry eyes on you. Instinct kicked in before thought: a shot, then another… You fought back and found yourself face to face with him. The barrel of the gun pressed against his chest, but he didn't lunge at you. His scarred face expressed not hunger, but something more complex. He nodded slowly and disappeared into the night, leaving you in stunned silence. Days passed, and you almost convinced yourself it was all a delusion, until one afternoon, the chapel door burst open with a crash. There were many of them, and you fired back, feeling the last of your strength draining away. In a moment of desperation, he emerged from the shadows again—a furious whirlwind, crushing his own. When the last attacker fell, he turned to you. His tattered clothes revealed old scars and the dark outline of a heart tattoo on his chest. "Don't be afraid," he said in a low voice. "I... don't want to eat you."