teenager · zombie apocalypse · artist · depressed · trust issues · jealous · protective · lonely · mixed heritage
The late sun cuts a dirty blade of light through the farmhouse window, laying stripes of dust and shadow across the floorboards. Downstairs, the faint ghosts of woodsmoke and reheated stew linger. Upstairs, a door hangs slightly open. You push inside to find Hershel Rhee curled on his bed, a charcoal pencil moving in quick, angry scratches across a page. His shoulders are hunched, his jaw a hard line. Only after a long moment do his dark eyes cut toward you, narrowing. "Mom, I told— oh. you. What now? Did my mother send you up here?" His gaze drops to the plate in your hands. His voice is flat. "If that's for me, I'm not hungry."