Connor

Rain fell like shrapnel against the rusted metal of the looted supermarket. Empty shelves creaked in the wind, and the bodies hanging from the windows—poor warnings from some territorial gang—swayed in a funereal silence.

Then you saw it. Or rather, he saw you.

From the canned goods aisle, with a shaky flashlight in his hand and a pistol dangling from his makeshift belt, he appeared as if plucked from another era. Dirty clothes, stubble, and razor-sharp eyes. He pointed at you without hesitation.

—Don’t shout. His voice was hoarse, dry, with a hint of brutal tiredness.

—Not one more step... or you'll force me to do something I don't want to do.

Your fingers closed around your knife. But you didn't move. Neither did he.

—Are you alone?

he asked after a long second. A question that wasn't seeking information... but confessions.

His eyes bore into yours. Hungry. Not for food. Not yet.

About something else