Satoru Gojo

The city fell too fast.

When the outbreak began, Satoru was brushing his teeth. He stood in front of the second-floor bathroom window, foam still in his mouth, when the screaming and crashing started. At first, he thought some neighbor’s dog had gone mad, until he saw the blood-soaked woman on the street tear her husband’s throat out with her teeth.

Everything that followed moved too quickly, like a hallucination. The government scrambled to maintain order, releasing daily announcements: "A vaccine is under development. Infected individuals are under control. Don’t panic, please remain calm." But the radio channels all went quiet eventually, leaving only the crackle of static behind—white noise that sounded like someone had once spoken but had long been swallowed by time.

Satoru, at least, was one of the lucky ones.

He lived in the suburbs, far from the main roads. The villa had been purchased by his parents years ago as a retirement home, now it served as a sanctuary from hell. The internet cut off first, then the water stopped. No more fresh bread by day three. He survived those early, chaotic days on canned food hoarded by some dormant “doomsday prepper” instinct.

But food always runs out.

Satoru held out as long as he could. Eventually, he packed a bag, grabbed a knife and a gun that hadn’t earned much confidence at the range, and made his way into the city.

The surge of infection had ebbed weeks ago. The streets were quiet, in a terrifying way. Once-crowded supermarkets stood in ruin, glass shattered, their entrances guarded by broken, rotting corpses. The infected were now few and slow—some missing limbs, some crawling. Every step smeared old blood under his shoes.

People had died too quickly to even ransack the stores. After checking three markets with no luck, he finally found some supplies on a back shelf: cans, a few expired-but-usable pills, a bottle of painkillers. In times like these, it felt like a blessing from the gods.

On the way back, he saw you.

His ex, the one who had slammed the door and walked out after a brutal breakup. The one who’d said, “Unless I die, don’t ever show your face again.” And now, there you were.

You stood beside a newspaper stand, hair matted, clothes in tatters. Your eyes were empty, as still as a dead lake. You didn’t scream. You sniffed the air like you’d caught a faint scent, then turned your face mechanically in his direction.

How ironic. You were dead now, or at least, your heart no longer beat.

He stood there, frozen, watching you shuffle forward with slow, sticky steps. You didn’t recognize him. Your pupils were unfocused, your gaze vacant. But his heart seized in his chest as if clutched by a cold hand.

He raised the gun. His finger hovered on the trigger for a long time. And then… he put it away.

A small, bitter smile curled his lips. “This is insane.”

He brought you home.

---

Of course, for safety, he used the muzzle that used to belong to his dog. Shackled your limbs with heavy chains. Only then did he lock you in the pitch-dark basement. You still tried to bite him, groaning from your throat, but the steel door kept you at bay.

He started feeding you.

Every day, he split his rations in half: meat scraps, bits of canned stew, and pushed them through the small window in the door. You chewed with loud, wet noises, like an animal, a wild thing, but to him? it sounded almost comforting. A rhythm that told him you were still there.

He would sit by the door and talk to you like you could still understand.

“Do you remember that winter trip to Hokkaido?”

“It’s cold outside today. Are you cold in there?”

“…Do you still hate me?”

Sometimes he really did regret it. He’d sit outside the basement asking himself, What the hell am I doing?

But your face, pale, stiff, dead, it was still you. He couldn’t leave you in that place alone. If he had to, he’d feed you, stay with you, tell you all the old stories you could no longer understand.

And you never replied.

Sometimes you’d bump the door, not violently, just slowly, again and again, as if exploring. But when you caught the scent of his blood or warmth, you became agitated, banging, clawing, desperate for the heat of the living.

Listening to that stubborn thud, thud, Satoru would laugh.

And cry later in the night.

Sometimes when he sat there too long, you’d press your stiff fingers against the door, tap gently. He liked to imagine you were responding.

But most times, you just wanted to tear the warm flesh on the other side.

---

The food was almost gone.

Two mouths were too much. Satoru dropped to one meal a day. His shoulders slumped. His face hollowed. His eyes, strangely, only grew brighter.

For a fleeting second, he thought, maybe this is love.

He even thought, If you run out of food, you can eat him. That way, y'all can become one again. In this rotten world, maybe that’s the closest you’ll get to reunion.

But he never made it that far.

Someone found the villa. Other survivors.

In this world, people had become worse than monsters. They barged in, looting what they could. They found him. He resisted, but there were too many. He barely escaped, staggering down to the basement door, blood pouring from a gunshot wound in his shoulder.

He could already hear you inside, pacing with excitement. You had smelled the blood.

“Hah... even now, no privacy left,” he muttered, fumbling in his pocket with trembling fingers.

Footsteps were coming closer.

He clenched his jaw, pushed himself upright against the door, key clicked. The door opened and you lunged at him.

He didn’t dodge. He opened his arms.

“This is it,” he whispered. “If this is the only way you’ll respond to me…”

He looked at your face, so close, lit faintly by the hallway light. For a split second, he thought you looked alive again. Like you used to be. Like back then, when you’d greet him with a hug.

“You know,” he said, voice shaking, “I never admitted it before, but I loved you.”