The night was cold.
The kind of cold that wasn't just in the air but in the bones. The kind that made you feel like the world had stopped breathing.
Lira sat under the hollow frame of an old highway billboard, hugging her knees, staring into the darkness. Her jacket was too thin. Her jeans were damp from crawling through broken glass. Her stomach was hollow. Her lips cracked. Her blood was dried under her fingernails.
But she didn't shiver.
She was getting used to the cold.
Used to the silence.
Used to the thought that no one was coming to save her.
The fire from the gas station burned miles behind her now, a glowing orange smear in the night sky. It was the first thing she'd ever destroyed. And she felt nothing.
No guilt.
No regret.
Just... quiet.
For the first time in her life.
Footsteps.
Crunching through gravel.
Slow. Heavy. Confident.
Lira didn't move.
She didn't flinch.
Not until the shadow of a man appeared just ten feet in front of her, illuminated by the moonlight and a half-dead streetlamp buzzing above.
He looked young twenties maybe. Tall. Gaunt. His boots were muddy, his sleeves rolled up. Dried blood on his collar. He had a pistol tucked in his waistband, visible even in the dark.
But he didn't reach for it.
"Thought you were a corpse," he said, voice dry. "You look like one."
Lira didn't answer.
He stepped closer.
"You got food?" he asked.
"No."
"Water?"
She shook her head.
"Then what the hell are you still alive for?"
She met his eyes.
And smiled.
That same smile she gave the men at the gas station. Calm. Dangerous. Unpredictable.
"Maybe I'm still alive because I'm not a dumbass who tries to rob women with no food."
He snorted. "Smart mouth. You'd be surprised what people trade out here now. It's not just food they're starving for."
Lira tilted her head. "Then what are you starving for?"
He didn't answer.
She stood slowly, wiping dirt off her jeans, never breaking eye contact. "You gonna shoot me or fuck me?"
He blinked.
Just once.
Then he laughed. Low. Rough. Like he hadn't heard his own laugh in weeks.
"You're either crazy or cracked open. Either way, not my type."
Lira took a step forward.
"So what is your type?" she asked.
"Quiet. Unbroken. Breathing."
She stepped even closer. "I'm breathing."
"Barely."
She stopped when they were just a foot apart.
He looked at her like she was a puzzle with blood on the edges.
She looked at him like he was an opportunity waiting to be stripped.
A loud growl broke the moment.
Not from either of them.
Her stomach.
The man raised an eyebrow. "When's the last time you ate?"
She didn't answer.
He pulled out a protein bar from his coat, unwrapped it, broke it in half, and tossed her a piece.
She caught it midair.
Lira didn't say thanks.
She just bit into it and chewed slowly, staring at him like she was studying him his posture, his tone, his scars.
"What's your name?" she asked.
He hesitated.
Then: "Micah."
"Lira."
"Where you headed, Lira?"
She finished chewing.
"Up."
He frowned. "What does that mean?"
"It means I'm not staying on the ground anymore."
They ended up walking side by side, not talking much, not needing to. That was the thing about the end of the world words were weight. Most people didn't want to carry any more than they already had.
They found a broken-down bar just outside the city limits. Windows shattered. Roof half gone. But the walls stood. Enough to hide inside.
Micah pushed open the door. She followed.
Inside was the stale scent of dried beer and rotting leather. But there were no bodies. No blood. Just silence.
He took the booth in the corner.
She sat across from him.
"I'm not sleeping," he warned. "You try anything, I'll put a bullet in your leg."
She nodded. "That's fair."
They stared at each other for a moment.
Then he asked, "You kill someone?"
She blinked. "You can smell it on me?"
"No. I can see it in your eyes."
She didn't confirm.
Didn't deny it.
Micah leaned back in the booth, watching her with the kind of expression only survivors wore. Not shock. Not pity. Just observation.
"I killed someone too," he said after a pause. "Day One. My brother. He got infected. I thought I could wait. I couldn't."
Lira didn't look away.
She leaned forward.
"I killed a man who thought I was worth a bag of rice."
Micah's jaw clenched. But he didn't speak.
She continued, voice lower. "He looked me in the eyes and said 'warm.' Like I was a bowl of soup."
He looked down at the table.
"People are animals now," he muttered.
"No," she whispered. "Animals kill for food. People kill for ownership."
The room went quiet again.
But the tension didn't fade.
Something hung in the air between them.
Not attraction.
Not safety.
Just... awareness.
They were the same.
Broken. But not shattered.
Not yet.
Hours passed.
Micah sat with his gun in hand, half-asleep against the booth wall.
Lira lay on her side, facing him, her legs curled, her breath even.
She watched him through her lashes.
Watched the way his chest rose and fell.
Watched the way his fingers twitched when he dreamed.
She didn't trust him.
She didn't need to.
Trust was dead.
But she wasn't scared of him.
And that meant something.
She woke up to warmth.
A blanket.
Tucked around her.
Not hers.
She blinked.
Micah wasn't in the booth anymore.
He stood by the window, gun in hand, eyes scanning the outside.
He felt her gaze.
Looked back.
Their eyes met.
And for the first time since the world ended, Lira felt something strange.