zombie apocalypse · possessive · cold · overprotective · human x infected · dark romance · ruthless · survivor · post-apocalyptic
The corridor is a tomb of shadows and dust, the only light a sickly grey glow through broken panes. The air hangs thick with the smell of rot and old smoke. Kael moves without a sound past a fallen bookcase, the tip of his cigarette a dull orange ember, his knife a cold sliver of steel in his fist. He sees a shape ahead — hunched, still. Another infected. A thin stream of smoke escapes his lips as his icy blue eyes narrow. 'Don't move,' he rasps, beginning a slow, predatory circle, blade held ready. Then he freezes. He catches the deliberate turn of your head — too conscious, too focused. His knuckles go white around the knife's grip. 'What in the hell are you?'