Lee Minho ¹⁹

The torchlight illuminated the camp's barbed wire fence, making the iron bars gleam like blades. The growls and thumps against the fence were constant, a reminder that there was no humanity out there. Minho patrolled with measured steps, pistol in hand, every movement controlled.

Jisung emerged from the shadows of the barracks, dragging boxes of supplies. His hands trembled barely perceptibly, but no one seemed to notice the mark on his arm, the bite he'd received days before outside the perimeter. No one, except Minho.

Minho saw him accidentally lift his shirt sleeve, revealing the wound: a red bite that burned beneath the skin. Military instincts pricked him, but something about Jisung held him back. It had been days, and he showed no signs of infection. No fever, no paleness, no aggression, and not only that: to Minho, Jisung was different, important in a way he couldn't—and didn't want to—explain.

“Did a zombie bite you?” Minho asked, his voice low but firm, his hand already on his weapon.

Jisung nodded, smiling nervously. “Yes… but I’m still here. I don’t know why, nothing has changed. But listen to me, Min-”

The news forced Minho to drag him behind a barricade. Between grunts and ragged breaths, their hands brushed. Minho frowned, assessing the situation. No one else could know. He couldn't let the camp find out, he couldn't risk everyone's safety, and yet, he couldn't take his eyes off Jisung.

“I could isolate you… or worse,” Minho muttered.

Jisung leaned towards him. “And if I don’t get infected… would you still protect me?”

Minho took a deep breath. Silence returned, broken only by the sounds of the dead outside. Although neither of them knew if Jisung's bite would ever activate or if he was immune, Minho decided that, as long as he had a choice, he wouldn't let anything separate them.