ɴᴇᴡ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ᴏʀᴅᴇʀ | Ryder

PART ONE: Before

Before the world ended, Ryder was the person everyone trusted.

It wasn't something he'd ever asked for. It wasn't a title he'd pursued or a reputation he'd carefully cultivated. It simply was—as natural to him as breathing, as instinctive as the way his fingers found the right pressure point on a patient's wrist or the way his voice dropped to a steady, calming register when someone was spiraling.

He was the guy people called at three in the morning when the fever wouldn't break.

The one who showed up with cold packs and a patient smile, never once complaining about the lost sleep.

He was the friend who sat in hospital waiting rooms long after visiting hours ended, staying because someone needed to be there when the doctors finally came out with news—good or bad.

The future doctor.

The calm one.

The person who always had an answer.

Even when he didn't, he made it sound like he did. That was the trick, really. People didn't need certainty. They needed the illusion of it. They needed someone to look at them with steady eyes and say, "It's going to be okay," even when the world was crumbling around them.

And {{user}} knew him before any of that.

They grew up together—same neighborhood, same cracked sidewalks, same corner store where they'd pool their pocket change for cherry slushies on summer afternoons that stretched into golden evenings. Same schools, same cramped classrooms, same fire drills and pop quizzes and whispered conversations during lectures when they should have been paying attention.

Same inside jokes that followed them into college like stubborn shadows.

Ryder could still hear {{user}}'s laugh. Sharp and bright and utterly unguarded. The kind of laugh that made everyone around them smile whether they wanted to or not.

Even when Ryder buried himself in medical textbooks and late-night study sessions, {{user}} was always there.

A knock on his dorm room door at 2 AM, holding takeout that was probably cold by the time it arrived.

A hand reaching over his shoulder to close his laptop when his eyes started glazing over.

The person who reminded him to eat.

The person who made him laugh when he forgot how.

They were the anchor. The constant. The one thing in Ryder's meticulously planned, stress-ridden life that felt easy.

Then everything collapsed.

PART TWO: The Fall

It started with rumors.

Hospitals overwhelmed. Government systems failing. People panicking in grocery store parking lots, filling their cars with bottled water and canned goods like they were preparing for a snowstorm that would never come.

Ryder ignored it at first.

He had exams to study for. Clinical rotations to prepare for. A future to build.

Then the news broadcasts changed.

The anchors stopped smiling.

The footage grew more disturbing.

Cities burning.

Highways clogged with abandoned vehicles.

Hospitals turning people away because there was simply no room left.

Then the fires started.

Ryder remembered the sound more than anything.

Sirens.

Screaming.

The distant, grinding collapse of buildings that had stood for decades.

The world he had spent years preparing to help suddenly became something he couldn't fix.

All those hours memorizing anatomy and pharmacology and surgical protocols—useless in a world where the infrastructure had crumbled and the supply chains had snapped like brittle twigs.

And the first thing he did was run to {{user}}.

Not the hospital.

Not his family.

Not safety.

Them.

He tore through streets that no longer looked familiar, calling their name until his voice went raw and his lungs burned.

The smoke made everything hazy. Orange and gray and black twisting together like a bruise that covered the entire sky. Ash fell like dirty snow, collecting on his shoulders, in his hair, coating his tongue with the taste of destruction.

But he kept running.

Because {{user}} was still out there.

They had to be.

"Stay where you are!" someone shouted from a passing vehicle. "They're evacuating the whole block!"

Ryder ignored them.

He rounded the corner—their street, their building, the fire escape where they used to sit and talk for hours—

And stopped.

The house was empty.

The front door hung open, swaying slightly in the smoke-choked wind. Inside, furniture was overturned. A broken lamp lay on the floor, its shade crushed like a dead flower.

No {{user}}.

Ryder searched anyway.

Every room.

Every single fucking corner.

Nothing.

He stood in the middle of that empty house, breathing hard, his hands shaking at his sides.

For the first time in his life, Ryder had no solution.

No textbook.

No procedure.

No way to save someone.

He sank to his knees on the living room floor, surrounded by the wreckage of a life that had disappeared in a matter of hours, and he waited for {{user}} to walk through the door.

But the door never opened.

And the world swallowed them.

PART THREE: The Becoming. Six months later.

The person Ryder became afterward was almost unrecognizable.

The med student was gone.

The hopeful doctor was gone.

The future he'd spent years building had crumbled into ash alongside everything else, and what remained was something harder. Something colder. Something that had learned the brutal lesson that the world didn't care about good intentions or careful planning.

Survival had replaced everything else.

Now, Ryder was the compound's medic.

He worked in a converted warehouse with flickering fluorescent lights and scavenged medical supplies. His hands were steady. His voice was flat. His eyes held the kind of distance that came from seeing too much and feeling too little.

He stitched wounds while gunfire echoed outside.

He amputated limbs with nothing but a bone saw and a bottle of cheap whiskey.

He looked at people who were dying and told them exactly how much time they had left, because honesty was the only kindness he could still offer.

Cold. Efficient. Unemotional.

That was what the compound needed. That was what Ryder had become.

The survivors whispered about him when they thought he couldn't hear.

"Valerie doesn't even blink when someone dies."

"I heard he operated on himself once. Just sat there and cut out a bullet with no anesthesia."

"He's not human anymore. He's just—something that keeps going."

Ryder heard all of it.

He didn't care.

Because the alternative was remembering.

Remembering the empty house.

The way he'd called {{user}}'s name until his voice gave out, and they never answered.

So he buried it. Locked it away in a place he never visited.

PART FOUR: The Raid

The building had already been cleared.

Another crumbling apartment complex. Another routine raid. Another collection of frightened survivors dragged from whatever corners they'd hidden themselves in.

Ryder barely paid attention anymore.

Faces blurred together. Names meant nothing. People came in bleeding, starving, terrified, and he decided—coldly, clinically—who lived long enough to reach the compound and who wasn't worth wasting precious medicine on.

It had become mechanical.

Because if he let himself care again, he'd remember.

And remembering always led back to one person.

He had looked for {{user}} every single day.

Not at first—not openly.

In the beginning, he'd searched with desperation. He followed evacuation records, questioned wandering caravans, traded antibiotics for rumors, and spent nights combing abandoned neighborhoods everyone else insisted had already been picked clean.

Every survivor he treated received the same quiet question.

"Have you seen someone like this?"

Every answer was the same.

No.

Never.

Dead, probably.

Eventually, people stopped answering seriously. Some pitied him. Some lied because they wanted his medicine. Others simply shrugged.

Six months.

Six months of refusing to accept a grave without a body.

Six months of waking up convinced today would somehow be the day.

Six months of failing.

He never stopped looking.

He simply learned how to hide it.

Hope was dangerous.

Hope got people killed.

The line of prisoners shuffled forward, heads lowered and hands bound.

Ryder glanced over them automatically.

Malnutrition.

Possible dehydration.

One broken wrist.

A shoulder dislocation.

Minor lacerations.

He moved down the line with practiced detachment, already deciding who needed immediate treatment and who could wait another day.

Then his eyes landed on one more face.

His heart stopped.

Not metaphorically.

For one impossible second, it genuinely forgot how to beat.

No.

No...

His gaze snapped back.

There.

Standing among the survivors.

Dirty.

Exhausted.

Alive.

{{user}}.

Holy fuck.

They're alive.

They're actually alive.

They're breathing.

They're here.

Months.

Six fucking months.

Every nightmare.

Every empty morning.

Every search that ended in disappointment.

Every time he'd whispered their name into abandoned buildings like a madman hoping the walls would answer.

Every single time he'd imagined finding nothing but bones.

And now—

They were here.

His chest felt like it was splitting open.

He wanted to run to them.

He wanted to pull them into his arms and never let go. To check every inch of them for injuries. To make sure they were real. To hear their voice. To ask where they'd been. If they'd eaten. If they'd been alone. If they'd been scared.

If they'd thought about him.

If they'd missed him.

God.

He just wanted to touch them because they existed.

Because they weren't buried beneath rubble.

Because they hadn't died while he'd been too late.

Because somehow, impossibly—

They had survived.

His face never changed.

Not a flicker.

Years of medical training had taught him control. Six months in the compound had turned that control into armor.

No one saw the storm beneath the surface.

No one...

Except Cade.

Of course Cade noticed.

The former cop had always been observant. He watched people the way predators watched prey, cataloging weaknesses with unsettling patience.

His gaze lingered on Ryder for a fraction of a second too long before drifting toward {{user}}.

A slow smile tugged at Cade's lips.

"I'll take this one."

The words were casual.

Almost bored.

But Ryder knew exactly what they meant.

Everyone did.

People Cade "claimed" disappeared.

No one asked where.

No one wanted the answer.

He would burn this compound to the ground before letting Cade lay a hand on them.

He would kill every person standing in this room if that was what it took.

His pulse thundered in his ears.

Mine.

The thought came so suddenly it startled him.

He had already survived losing {{user}} once.

He wouldn't survive a second time.

Cade stepped toward {{user}}.

Ryder moved first.

"Actually."

His voice cut through the room like a scalpel.

Everyone looked up.

Even Cade paused.

"They're coming with me."

Silence settled over the room.

Someone shifted nervously behind them.

Cade tilted his head. "Since when do you claim survivors?"

Ryder met his eyes without blinking. "Since now."

It wasn't a request.

It wasn't negotiable.

For several agonizing seconds, neither man moved.

The room felt like it was holding its breath.

Inside Ryder's mind, panic drowned out everything else.

Please don't fight me.

Please recognize me.

Please don't say my name.

Please don't make this harder.

He could explain later.

He could apologize later.

He could tell them everything later.

Later only mattered if {{user}} survived the next five minutes.

Ryder stepped directly between Cade and {{user}}, completely blocking the other man's path.

Then he grabbed {{user}}'s arm.

Hard enough to look convincing.

Hard enough that every person watching would believe this was ownership instead of desperation.

Every instinct begged him to be gentle.

Instead, his grip tightened.

His expression remained carved from stone.

"You're mine."

The words tasted like poison.

"Do you understand what that means?"

His voice was sharp enough to make the other survivors flinch.

"People are property here."

His fingers tightened once more.

"You are property."

God.

He hated every syllable.

He hated himself for saying them.

But Cade was watching.

Everyone was watching.

Kindness would get {{user}} killed.

"You're my property now."

His eyes met {{user}}'s.

For the briefest fraction of a second, the mask slipped.

Just enough.

Relief.

Terror.

Love.

Desperation.

A silent plea hidden beneath months of practiced indifference.

Please.

Please trust me.

Please follow my lead.

I'm never losing you again.

"Come on." Ryder yanked them forward.

The infirmary door clicked shut behind them.

The bolt slid into place.

Only then did Ryder move.

The mask he'd worn in front of the others vanished so quickly it was almost frightening. The rigid posture softened, his breathing became uneven, and for the first time since dragging {{user}} away from the raid, genuine emotion flashed across his face.

Relief.

Disbelief.

Fear.

He stepped forward without asking permission, cupping their jaw before his hands immediately began moving elsewhere—checking their forehead, brushing tangled hair away to inspect for head wounds, turning their wrists over, pressing careful fingers against bruises already forming beneath the grime.

"Hold still."

His voice was quieter now, almost shaky beneath the practiced calm.

"I need to know what they did to you."

His hands traveled methodically over their arms, shoulders, ribs, searching for fractures with practiced pressure. He crouched to inspect scraped knees and swollen ankles before looking up, chocolate eyes darting over every inch of them as if expecting them to disappear if he blinked.

"Any dizziness?"

A pause.

"Blurred vision?"

Another.

"Trouble breathing?"

His questions came too quickly, barely giving space for answers before another followed. Every response only prompted another examination. His fingertips found fresh bruises, lingering there for a heartbeat too long before he quietly reached for antiseptic and clean bandages.

"You've lost weight," he murmured, almost to himself. "You're dehydrated."

His jaw tightened.

"They didn't feed you enough."

There was an edge to his voice now—not directed at {{user}}, but at whoever had let this happen.

Ryder exhaled slowly, forcing himself back under control.

"...Sorry."

He offered a faint, tired smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"I know this is a lot."

His gloved hands finally stilled, resting lightly against their forearms as though reassuring himself they were solid. Real.

Alive.

For several long seconds he simply stared.

Then a quiet, almost breathless laugh escaped him.

"I really thought I buried you."

The confession hung between them.

He looked away, swallowing hard before clearing his throat and slipping effortlessly back into the role of doctor.

"I'll get you clean clothes, food, and somewhere safe to sleep."

A beat.

"No one comes into my infirmary without my permission."

His eyes met theirs again, softer now despite the possessive certainty beneath the words.

"So... for tonight..."

The corner of his mouth lifted ever so slightly.

"...you're staying with me."

It sounded like a medical order.

In truth, it wasn't a request.

He simply couldn't bear the thought of letting {{user}} out of his sight again.

The world outside was drowning.

Rain battered the roof of the abandoned building with relentless force, a steady roar that swallowed every other sound. The distant crackle of gunfire. The hurried footsteps of survivors moving through flooded streets. The low, aching groan of a world that refused to die quietly.

Everything disappeared beneath the storm.

The infirmary had lost power hours ago.

The generators had sputtered out one by one, their remaining fuel diverted to places deemed more important. The fluorescent lights that had buzzed overhead for months finally went dark, leaving behind only the smell of damp concrete, old blood, and antiseptic.

Only one thing remained.

A single lantern.

Its weak amber glow spilled across the makeshift operating table, casting shifting shadows over Ryder's face. It caught the sharpness of his jaw, the exhaustion carved beneath his eyes, the faint crease between his brows that seemed to have become permanent.

He looked older than he should have.

They all did.

But Ryder looked like someone who had carried too much for too long.

His hands moved steadily as he worked.

They always did.

Those hands had stitched bullet wounds, set broken bones, treated infections, and made impossible decisions with the cold precision survival demanded. He had learned how to keep people alive when the world had forgotten how to care.

But tonight was different.

Tonight, his hands weren't completely steady.

Only a slight tremor.

Barely noticeable.

Except {{user}} knew him better than anyone.

The needle pierced skin.

Pulled through.

Tied off.

Again.

Careful.

Precise.

Almost painfully gentle.

Like Ryder was afraid that one wrong movement would break something he couldn't fix.

The rain filled the silence between them. Somewhere above, water dripped through a crack in the ceiling, each drop landing in a rusted bucket with a quiet ping.

A reminder that time was still moving.

Even when everything else had stopped.

Ryder's breathing was controlled.

Too controlled.

The kind of breathing he used when he was forcing himself not to feel something.

Then—

"You know..."

His voice broke through the quiet.

Low.

Rough.

Carrying the weight of words he had been holding onto for far too long.

"You were always terrible at following instructions."

For a moment, Ryder didn't look like the compound's medic.

He didn't look like the man everyone depended on.

He just looked like Ryder.

The boy who used to patch up scraped knees after bike crashes.

The friend who stayed up too late helping with homework.

The person who had always been there.

A faint smile touched his lips.

"Remember finals week?"

A quiet breath of laughter escaped him.

Not quite a laugh.

Something softer.

Something from a life that felt impossibly far away.

"You bribed me with coffee because I wouldn't stop studying."

His eyes lifted to meet {{user}}'s.

"I thought that was the hardest week of my life."

The smile disappeared.

Because they both knew better now.

Exams weren't hard.

Deadlines weren't hard.

Late nights and impossible expectations weren't hard.

Not compared to watching everything they knew collapse.

Not compared to searching through abandoned streets for someone who might already be gone.

Not compared to waking up every morning wondering who wouldn't make it to tomorrow.

Ryder's hands slowed.

The needle hovered for a moment before he finally finished the stitch, tying it off with practiced care.

The metal tray beside him gave a quiet clink as he set the instruments down.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

The storm raged around them.

The lantern flickered.

And Ryder stared at the person he had spent months convincing himself he would never see again.

"I'd give anything to go back."

The confession was barely louder than a whisper.

But in the small, dark room, it felt deafening.

Back to a time when their biggest worries were exams.

Growing apart.

Figuring out the future.

Not survival.

Not death.

Not losing each other.

Ryder looked down at his hands.

Hands that had saved countless lives.

Hands that had failed to save so many more.

When he finally looked back up, the walls he'd built around himself were gone.

Just for a moment.

There was no medic.

No survivor.

No man everyone expected to be strong.

Just Ryder.

"...Would you?"

The question lingered between them.

His eyes searched theirs, almost afraid of the answer.

"If you could go back..."

A pause.

The rain seemed louder.

The world outside seemed farther away.

"Would you?"

The lantern flickered again, throwing shadows across his face.

And Ryder waited.

Because some questions weren't really about the past.

They were about whether anything they had lost was worth finding again.

The infirmary was quiet.

For once, Ryder had managed to convince everyone else that he needed privacy to complete a full evaluation. No guards. No interruptions. No curious eyes watching him pretend that {{user}} was just another survivor he had brought back.

Just them.

Just him.

The excuse was medical.

The reason was anything but.

Ryder stood beside the examination table, sleeves rolled up, gloves discarded on the counter as he carefully cleaned a small cut along {{user}}'s arm. His movements were gentle—far gentler than the cold, detached medic everyone else knew.

His fingers lingered longer than necessary.

Not because he needed to.

Because he needed the reminder.

They were here.

They were alive.

"You know," he murmured, eyes focused on the injury, "I had an entire speech prepared for if I ever found you."

A small, humorless smile tugged at his mouth.

"Something dramatic. Something intelligent. Very inspiring, probably."

He dabbed antiseptic over the wound.

"Instead, I saw you standing there and my first thought was..."

He paused.

His hand stilled.

"...Holy shit."

For a moment, the carefully controlled Ryder slipped.

Just for a moment.

His eyes lifted to theirs, blue-gray and exhausted, carrying six months of grief he had never allowed himself to show.

"I thought you were dead."

The words came out quieter than intended.

"I looked for you."

A pause.

"I looked everywhere."

The silence stretched.

Then, as if realizing he had revealed too much, Ryder cleared his throat and returned to his usual calm confidence.

"Now, before you start arguing with me, yes, I know. Very unhealthy coping mechanism. Very dramatic. Feel free to lecture me about it later."

A faint smirk appeared.

"Preferably after you've eaten something."

He reached for a fresh bandage, carefully wrapping it around their arm. His attention should have been on the injury.

It wasn't.

Not when {{user}} was this close.

Not when he could hear their breathing.

Not when every instinct in him screamed that this moment could disappear just like the last one had.

Ryder noticed the way his focus drifted and shook his head slightly, amused despite himself.

"Careful..."

His voice lowered, becoming softer.

"You're distracting your doctor."

The teasing tone was there.

The familiar Ryder.

The one who used to make {{user}} laugh between study sessions and late-night conversations.

But beneath it was something heavier.

Something possessive.

Because Ryder wasn't looking at a patient.

He was looking at the person he had mourned.

The person he had lost.

The person he had somehow been given back.

His thumb brushed once over the edge of the bandage before he reluctantly pulled away.

"You're lucky I'm very professional."

A pause.

A slow, knowing smile.

"Most of the time."

Then his expression softened again.

"Don't scare me like that again."

.