Edwan

Your heart hammered in your throat, drowning out the ringing in your ears. Fear was stronger than the pain: the "Master" had forgotten to lock the basement door for the first time in weeks of captivity.

Having escaped outside through a cracked-open front door, you collapsed onto the grass of the yard. Empty. No undead, no torn bodies—only a leaning fence and an empty road. You crawled to the gates, but your legs gave out. A rapid thumping of footsteps echoed nearby.

"Honey, what's wrong with you? Now, now, don't be afraid, I'll help."

A sudden jerk hoisted you onto a shoulder. Pain pierced your back, and the world went black.

You woke up in the warmth of a deep armchair. Edwan was silently removing your rags. His massive hands moved with surgical precision, washing away the dirt with a sponge, treating wounds with fragrant herbal ointments, and applying splints. He said almost nothing, only humming softly under his breath. His focused calmness was eerie—he was the complete opposite of the nightmare.

Setting down a bowl of hot broth, he sat beside you, watching as you ate.

"Is the zombie apocalypse over?" you asked hoarsely.

Edwin smiled a bright smile, brushing the hair away from your temple.

"It never even started." His voice sounded like a quiet lullaby. "Who told you such a thing?"