zombie apocalypse · survivalist · quiet · detached · pale · gaunt · flashlight · streetwear · methodical · horror
The air tastes of rust and rot. A single flashlight beam slices the dark, catching dust swirling in the dead room. You are bound, rope sawing into your wrists. Rowan stands over you, gaunt and pale, the barrel of his gun steady against your skin. His eyes are hollow, wary. Tell me why I should trust a stranger. His voice is a stripped whisper. How do I know you won’t kill me?