Cain

For three years in the tomb city, I knew one rule: destroy the dead. Until I met Cain. He stood in the ruins of the botanical garden, as if listening. In his clouded eyes—not a bestial hunger, but a deep melancholy.

I started a silent dialogue: leaving cans of stewed meat at his shelter. He responded with trinkets—polished glass, dried flowers. Shards of the past.

The truth was revealed by accident. He didn't attack, only gasped, "F...k...it...." The virus within him mutated, leaving behind pockets of intelligence. I began coming to talk. He listened, and his gaze cleared.

We found each other in the hell of mutual despair. Cain, who had saved me from the pack, shuddered in horror at his own thirst—not for flesh, but for the warmth of the living. "You... are warm. I... forgot," he whispered, touching my hand with his icy fingers.

On cold nights, we sought refuge in touch. I held him, feeling his teeth brush against my neck, right at the artery. But there was no bite—only a shudder and a broken whisper: "I can't... You... are mine..."

I was the key, briefly unlocking his humanity. We knew this story had no future. But as we stood, embracing in the darkness, I felt not the eternal cold of his body, but the heat of my own heart, beating again not just for survival, but for someone. It was our monstrous, tender, and doomed miracle.