The morning after their strange meeting dawned gray and brittle. The sun didn't rise so much as bleed light through a dusty sky, casting the ruins of Sanctuary Hills in a faded gold. The wind carried ash and memory through the hollow streets.
Nora stirred beneath a tattered blanket she'd scavenged from her old home. She'd barely slept. Every creak in the wind made her clutch the baton tighter. Every flicker of movement sent adrenaline through her like fire.
But what scared her most was what lay just five feet away.
Ashborn, curled beneath the rusted frame of an overturned patio table, his long tail flicking as he dreamed.
He looked… peaceful.
Alien, yes—scaled and clawed and spined—but small, breathing in slow, even rhythm. The sun glinted off his dark hide, and for a moment, Nora could almost pretend he was a strange dog, sleeping beside his owner.
But she knew better.
He wasn't an animal.
And the way he had tried to speak yesterday still echoed in her mind.
"...Sha…"
What had he been trying to say?
Her name?
A word?
A memory?
She sat up, muscles sore, and watched him. Carefully.
He shifted, stirred, and then blinked awake—his golden eyes instantly snapping to her.
Alert.
Sharp.
Too sharp.
"Hey," she said gently, raising her hands. "It's just me."
Ashborn stared for a long moment, then slowly stood on all fours and padded toward her. He sniffed the air around her—then nudged a half-rotten can of cram with his snout.
She smirked. "Breakfast, huh?"
He chuffed once. A dry, amused sound.
She wasn't sure if she imagined that.
===============================================================
They explored together, moving cautiously from house to house.
Nora carried her baton and a pipe pistol she'd barely tested. Ashborn stuck to the shadows, his body flowing low to the ground like a stalking cat.
It was strange.
They didn't need to speak.
They just… moved.
As if they'd done it before.
Nora peeked under a collapsed porch, while Ashborn sniffed out a pantry in a half-burned home. Together, they found some sealed food, a working lighter, and a pair of bobby pins.
Survival.
Piece by piece.
===============================================================
"Let's check the storm shelter," Nora said as they passed one of the still-standing houses. "I remember the Andersons used to store half their junk down there. Might be something useful."
The scent hit him as she tugged open the rusted metal hatch: rot. Fungi. Wet fur.
His eyes narrowed.
Danger.
He growled low.
Nora hesitated at the sound. "What is it?"
Ashborn hissed, backing up slightly—but didn't flee. Instead, he circled the hatch, claws flexing. Protective.
"Something's in there, huh?"
She cocked her pistol and descended carefully, one step at a time.
Ashborn followed silently behind, tail flicking, ears alert.
The basement was damp, filled with mildew and dust. Mold crept up the shelves. Boxes had collapsed from water damage. But the shelves weren't empty.
Nor was the floor.
Molerats.
At least three of them.
They burst from behind shattered crates—gnarled, mutated, snarling with fangs dripping disease. Their skin was pink and raw, their eyes blind with fury.
Nora screamed and raised her pistol, but Ashborn moved first.
A blur of claws and teeth, he leapt between her and the creatures with shocking speed. He landed on the first molerat and ripped its throat open with one swipe. Blood splashed across the floor.
The second lunged.
Ashborn twisted, caught it mid-air, and slammed it against the wall hard enough to crack bone.
The third bit deep into his side.
He screeched in pain—but didn't back down.
Instead, he turned and bit back, tearing the thing off with his teeth and slamming it into the ground repeatedly until it stopped twitching.
Silence fell.
Nora stood frozen.
Ashborn bled from his ribs, panting.
She stepped forward slowly.
He flinched.
But didn't run.
Instead, he sank down beside the corpse of the last molerat, whimpering quietly.
She dropped to her knees beside him.
"Jesus," she breathed. "You saved me."
He didn't look at her.
He just trembled.
Nora hesitated, then reached out and brushed his shoulder gently.
He flinched again—but allowed the contact.
His scales were warm. Smooth, but damaged where the molerat had struck.
She took some cloth from her pack and wrapped it carefully around the wound, hands trembling.
Ashborn didn't growl.
Didn't snap.
He let her help.
When she finished, he looked at her with something new in his eyes.
Trust.
Maybe even recognition.
They sat in silence afterward, in the damp basement surrounded by dead things and fading light.
Finally, Nora spoke.
"You weren't just made in a lab, were you?" she whispered.
Ashborn didn't answer.
But his eyes didn't deny it.