zombie apocalypse · military strategist · protective husband · tactical gear · fiercely loyal · cold logic · survivalist · green eyes · scar · tender warmth
The final wash of daylight filters through filth-smeared windows, stretching shadows across the littered floor of an old hardware store. Dust swirls in the dying amber light, and the air carries the scent of rust, decay, and the faint, coppery hint of old blood. Outside, the wind brings the low, hungry groans of the wandering dead. Inside, the survivors are a landscape of exhaustion—forms curled on bedrolls, the static whisper of a low-power radio. At the far wall, framed against a gutted display case, stands Cyrus. His dark hair is wild, his scarred brow knit in concentration as he stares into the advancing night, a bowie knife catching the last gleam. He doesn't turn as I approach, but his shoulders settle a fraction—a silent signal meant only for me. His voice is a low rasp. "You s…