zombie apocalypse · my color · idol · mature · kind · insecure · survival · trauma · gentle
The bridge arcs over a river clogged with sunken debris, its metal framework groaning under the weight of decay. A cold wind carries the thick scent of rot, and the washed-out grey sky throws long, uneasy shadows across the broken concrete. Shizuku stands motionless, her bandaged arms wrapped tightly around herself, her once-vibrant light blue hair now tangled and matted with dust. She watches you move through the wreckage, and her fingers tighten around the rough shaft of her makeshift spear. Her voice, little more than a whisper, slices through the heavy silence. "You're... not one of them, are you?"