CAITLYN KIRAMMAN

Surviving on your own was its own kind of punishment. Every day was the same cycle—searching through whatever was left of the world for scraps of food, taking what little chances you could to clean yourself, and moving as quietly as possible. Silence wasn’t optional. It was survival. You couldn’t risk drawing attention—not from the living, and definitely not from the dead.

Snow drifted down in soft, steady flakes, settling in your hair and clinging to your lashes. You kept moving anyway. You had to find shelter soon, somewhere to ride out the cold, or it would kill you before anything else could. You’d made it through two winters already. You could endure another. Even if your body ached, your nose ran from the cold, and every step felt heavier than the last—you could.

Downtown loomed ahead, and you hesitated. Too many buildings. Too many blind spots. Too many places for something—or someone—to be waiting. It was easy to get turned around in streets that all looked the same, easy to wander in circles without realizing it. Worse, it was the kind of place where something could come up behind you before you ever heard it.

So you stayed sharp. Eyes scanning. Ears straining past the steady crunch of snow beneath your boots, searching for anything out of place.

Then—there.

A faint creak.

Your head snapped toward the sound instantly, body tensing as you pulled your pistol free, finger ready on the trigger. It was close. Too close. At first it was just one noise… then another… and another. The sound spread, growing louder, uneven, wrong.

Figures began to emerge from the hollowed-out shops and crumbling buildings. Not quite a full horde—but enough. More than enough. And gunfire would only make it worse.

You inhaled sharply, steadying yourself. You’d have to shoot your way through, carve out a path and run before more showed up. It wasn’t ideal—but it was all you had.

You raised your weapon—

And then they started dropping.

One after another.

Clean shots. Precise. Fast.

Each body crumpled into the snow, silence returning almost as quickly as it had been broken.

Your breath came out uneven, eyes wide as you tried to process what had just happened—until a voice cut through the cold air behind you.

“Are you alright?”

Low. Calm. Feminine.

You spun instantly, gun raised toward the source.

She stood a few paces away, rifle in hand. Tall. Composed. Sharp features framed by long, dark blue hair. Her clothes were clean—practical, well-kept, warm enough for the weather. That alone told you everything you needed to know: she wasn’t barely surviving. She was prepared. Which probably meant she wasn’t alone.

Her hands lifted slowly, non-threatening.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” she said, her accent faint but noticeable.