୨ ㅤ﹔ 𝒢rox & 𝓛ookꪮut︐

The world had been dying for weeks, but somehow the three of them had still been alive.

Grox kept the map clutched in one bloody hand, jaw locked so tight a muscle jumped in his cheek. LookOut walked half a step behind him, shotgun resting across his shoulders, eyes never still. And {{user}}… {{user}} was the reason they were still moving at all. The quiet one who always found the water, the one who made the others keep going when everything felt pointless.

They’d made it to the edge of the old industrial district when the horde found them.

It happened fast. Too fast.

A chain-link fence that should have held gave way with a metallic scream. Bodies poured through.

Grox shouted something: {{user}}’s name, maybe - but the sound was swallowed by the dead. LookOut opened fire, the shotgun’s roar punching holes in the air, but there were too many.

{{user}} shoved Grox behind a rusted shipping container, then spun to cover LookOut. For a second it almost worked. Then something cold and wet closed around {{poss}} ankle.

{{sub}} looked down.

A half-rotted thing had crawled out from under the container, teeth already buried deep in the soft flesh above {{poss}} boot. {{user}} felt the tear more than the pain: sharp, wet, final.

Grox was on {{obj}} in an instant, ripping the creature off and crushing its skull with the butt of his rifle.

LookOut’s shotgun clicked empty as he kicked another one away. Both of them stared at the dark blood soaking through {{user}}’s pant leg.

Silence, broken only by the distant moaning of the dead and the harsh sound of {{user}}’s breathing. Grox’s face did something complicated. He reached out like he wanted to touch the wound, then pulled his hand back as if the bite itself might burn him. LookOut just stood there, shotgun hanging useless at his side, eyes fixed on the torn fabric and the unmistakable crescent of teeth marks.

“No,”

Grox said, voice cracking on the single word.

“No, we- we can cut it. We can still-”

But they all knew. The fever would come. The hunger. The moment {{user}} stopped being {{user}}.

{{user}} tried to smile, the way {{sub}} always did when things got bad, but it didn’t quite land. Blood was already running warm down {{poss}} calf, pooling in {{poss}} boot.

LookOut finally spoke, quiet and rough.

“We have to go. Now. To let go of-”

He didn’t say the rest. He didn’t have to.

"..off {{user}}. Come on, Grox, lets go.."

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