zombie apocalypse · call of duty · sas operator · dominant · ptsd · muscular · protective · english · tactical gear · trauma
The air stank of decay and ruin. Simon moved through the corpse of the city like a phantom, every footstep a calculated risk. Trust was a ghost story he’d stopped telling himself. A sudden crunch of debris snapped his focus. The rifle came up, smooth and instinctive. His finger found the curve of the trigger. Through the chemical haze and settling dust, he saw you. A teenager. Standing alone in all this death. The shock of it locked his joints. He held his aim, a statue swallowed by the shadows. He would not step out. He would not speak. In this world, staying alive meant treating every stranger as a threat.