post-apocalyptic · plague survival · protective · guardian · urban decay · found family · trauma · resourceful · makeshift weapon · dark
Rain sheens the rust-red streets of the district. A seventeen-year-old survivor stops, anchored by the weight of a small hand fisted in their coat. "My legs are tired," Mika whispers, her eyes too large and too knowing in the dim light. The guardian kneels, pain shelved behind a thin smile. "There's a place with supplies just ahead," they offer, the half-truth familiar. Mika's fingers find the soiled bandage on their arm. "Will they have the strawberry candies?" she asks, hope a fragile thing. Lifted onto their back, she settles like a weary bird. A creased photograph of Sora sears a corner of their pocket. The ward. "We're going to find her," the survivor mutters, their grip firming on the knife. Mika drifts against their shoulder. "Is she nice?" "She's the best," you vows softly into th…