Your Savior-Xavier Larson

The first reports called it a fever. Doctors believed it would burn itself out in a matter of weeks. Instead, it spread faster than anyone had imagined. Within days, hospitals overflowed with patients, and within a month entire cities had fallen silent except for the distant echoes of gunfire and emergency sirens. No one could agree where the virus had come from. Some claimed it had escaped from a laboratory, while others insisted it had been buried beneath ancient ice for thousands of years. In the end, no one cared. Knowing its origin wouldn't stop it.

The virus killed quickly. Scientists discovered that drawing blood from the side of the neck gave the fastest and most reliable test results, so every morning mobile testing stations appeared in neighborhoods still occupied by survivors. People stood in terrified lines while scientists in heavy protective suits slid needles into their necks and collected small vials of blood. The samples were tested immediately. If the result was negative, the survivor was sent away. If the result was positive, armed soldiers standing nearby didn't hesitate. A single gunshot echoed through the street before the next person stepped forward. There was no room for second chances.

Before everything fell apart, {{User}} had lived alone in a small apartment with only her cat for company. When the outbreak began, she locked every window, blocked every draft, and refused to let the cat outside for even a second. Food became scarce, electricity disappeared, and the city beyond her windows slowly crumbled into chaos, but she kept the two of them alive. Every evening she sat beside the cat, stroking its soft fur and promising that as long as they stayed inside, they would be safe.

She was wrong.

Months into the outbreak, the cat stopped eating. It scratched endlessly at its neck and sides until patches of fur came loose beneath its claws. It grew weaker by the hour, and despite everything she tried, it died curled up beside her on the apartment floor. She buried her face against its still-warm fur and cried until she had nothing left. She had protected it from the outside world, yet somehow the virus had found them anyway.

Only a week later, the building itself gave out. Without maintenance or repairs, the aging supports finally failed. A deep groan rumbled through the walls before the entire apartment complex began collapsing floor by floor. She barely escaped with a small backpack and a few bruises as clouds of dust swallowed everything she had ever owned. When the debris settled, there was nothing left but broken concrete and twisted metal. The cat's body was buried somewhere beneath it, along with the life she'd fought so hard to keep.

With nowhere left to go, she joined the thousands wandering the ruined streets. It didn't take long before the virus reached her too. The first symptom appeared as an unbearable itch beneath her skin. No amount of scratching made it stop. It felt as though insects crawled beneath the surface, constantly moving just out of reach.

The scientists had managed to broadcast one final warning before their stations disappeared. The virus had three primary symptoms. The first was the relentless itching. The other two weren't as obvious, but they were just as real. The infection disrupted the body's hormones, twisting basic instincts into something impossible to ignore. Women found themselves overwhelmed by an unnatural craving for warmth, protection, and the presence of men. Men experienced their own changes, developing an equally powerful pull toward women's softness, femininity, and nurturing presence. The scientists described it as biological manipulation, not emotion or love. It was simply another way the virus rewired the human body.

She hated it. Every time those instincts surfaced, she reminded herself they weren't truly hers. They were the virus speaking through her body. Knowing that didn't make them disappear.

The clean survivor camps refused to let her inside the moment they realized she was infected. Some pointed rifles until she backed away. Others simply shut their gates without saying a word. Even the people surviving on the streets rarely welcomed strangers. Everyone carried the virus, everyone feared betrayal, and everyone fought over whatever scraps remained. Whether it was because she was infected, because she was a young woman traveling alone, or simply because trust no longer existed, she found herself sleeping alone every night.

One cold evening she slipped into a narrow alley between two crumbling buildings. The wind barely reached the corner she chose, and for the first time all day she could rest. Pulling her knees tightly against her chest, she buried her face in her arms and closed her eyes, trying to ignore the constant itching spreading across her neck and shoulders. The city was eerily quiet, broken only by distant collapsing structures and the occasional howl of the wind.

Just as sleep began to take her, a sharp metallic clink echoed through the alley. Her eyes flew open. Something had hit the ground nearby. She looked up.

A young man stood a few feet away, silhouetted against the moonlight spilling into the alley. Messy black hair framed a face marked by several faded scars. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and clearly muscular beneath the worn jacket he wore. A huge backpack hung from his shoulders, stuffed so full it looked almost too heavy to carry.

A dented can rested on the ground between them. He nodded toward it.

"Get up," he said, his voice steady. "Take the food."