When her eyes snapped open again, the fire was ash. The room was dim, pale morning light creeping through cracks in the roof. Her gaze darted around--empty. He was gone.
Her chest tightened, breath catching in shallow gasps. She scrambled to her feet, heart pounding against her ribs. Alone again. The thought clawed at her, worse than the hunger, worse than the infected. She hugged herself, blinking back the sting of tears, straining to listen for footsteps, anything.
Minutes dragged, stretching unbearably. Then, at last, a shadow filled the doorway. He stepped back inside, small bag slung over his shoulder--only this time it bulged with scavenged supplies. A battered water bottle hung at his side, and wrappers peeked from the pack's seams. He set it down with a dull thud, not looking at her right away, as though nothing unusual had happened at all. Her fists unclenched, though she hadn't noticed she'd been holding them so tight. She didn't move, didn't speak--only watched as he crossed the room, dust clinging to his boots. The bag hit the floor with a dull weight, and he crouched to check through it, pulling out items with brisk, efficient motions. Cans. Bottles. More wrappers.
She stayed where she was, small and still on the slab of concrete, eyes following every movement. A dozen questions trembled on her lips, but none made it out. Instead, she hugged her knees tighter, relief washing through her like a secret she couldn't admit—not to him, not even to herself. He hadn't left. Not yet.
The man glanced her way, just once, as if sensing the weight of her stare. Whatever flickered in his eyes was gone too quickly to catch. Then he went back to sorting supplies, silent as ever.
The morning passed in uneasy quiet. He moved like he'd done this a hundred times—checking corners, dividing supplies, adjusting the strap of his blade. She shadowed him at a distance, never too close, never too far, her footsteps quick whenever his grew faint. Neither spoke. The only sounds were the scuff of their shoes and the restless cries of crows circling above the dead town.
By midday, the sun hung heavy, and the air pressed thick around them. He slowed near a cracked fountain, scanning the streets as he knelt to refill a bottle from a trickle of water still running. She stood a few paces behind, arms wrapped tight around herself, gaze fixed on the jagged skyline. She didn't dare break the silence. She wasn't sure he'd even answer if she tried.
Then, without looking at her, he finally spoke. His voice was low, rough, like gravel dragged across stone.
"…What's your name?"
The question hung between them, heavy and unexpected, as if he'd just acknowledged she existed for the very first time. Her head snapped up at the sound of his voice. For a moment she only stared at him, wide-eyed, like she wasn't sure he'd really spoken to her. The silence pressed in again, louder now, her throat tightening around words that wouldn't come. It had been so long since anyone had asked her that… so long since her name had meant anything at all.
He finally turned his head, one brow lifting ever so slightly, waiting. Something in his gaze--not soft, not kind, but steady--forced the answer out of her. She swallowed hard, voice a thin whisper at first.
"…Crystal."
The word sounded strange in the air, fragile but clear, like glass catching light. She hugged herself tighter, as if saying it had cost her something. He gave a small grunt, almost like acknowledgment, then looked away again, but the silence that followed felt different now--less empty.
He didn't answer back. No name, no return. Just that same grunt, low in his throat, before he capped the bottle and slung the pack over his shoulder again. The moment passed as quickly as it had come, leaving her name hanging in the air, unclaimed by anything else.
Crystal lowered her eyes, chewing the inside of her cheek. Part of her wanted to ask his name, but the words stuck. She wasn't sure if he'd tell her, or if he'd even care enough to. So, she stayed quiet, following when he started moving again, the sound of his footsteps leading her forward through the broken streets.
The silence stretched, but it wasn't quite the same anymore. Somewhere inside her chest, the weight of being unseen had eased just a little. He knew her name now. And that was something.
Days bled into weeks, weeks to months, the ruined city offering little but dust, shadows, and the occasional stash of forgotten food. She learned his silences, learned how to match her steps to his, learned that he always kept one hand near his weapon when they entered a building. And though he never offered his name, he hadn't left her behind.
One gray morning, they slipped into the skeleton of a looted sporting goods store. Shelves lay toppled, glass crunched underfoot, and the smell of damp cloth clung to the air. The sporting goods store was half-collapsed, shelves overturned and glass scattered across the floor. Most of what had once been valuable was long gone, stripped by looters or spoiled by time. But in the corner, half-hidden beneath a fallen rack of clothes, something caught Crystal's eye. She pushed aside the fabric, and her breath caught.
There, resting in the dust, was a pair of swords-- dual swords. Not toys, not dull replica--the real thing They gleamed faintly in the pale light spilling through the broken windows, beautiful in a way that didn't belong to this ruined place.
Crystal crouched, heart quickening as she reached for them. Her reflection shimmered faintly along the metal. For the first time in weeks, her lips curved into something like a smile.
The hilts were bound in worn leather, dark and sturdy, and their balance looked almost perfect even to her untrained eye.
Her small hands hovered over them before finally curling around the hilts. They felt heavy, far too heavy, but there was a strange thrill in the weight—a power she had never held before. For a moment, the ruin of the store seemed to fall away, leaving only her reflection staring back from the polished steel. A smile tugged at her lips, the first in weeks.
She turned toward the man, both swords clutched awkwardly in her arms, eyes wide with something between pride and plea. He blinked at the swords, then let out a low, satisfied sound—half-grunt, half-approval. For the first time since she'd found him, something like a plan crossed his face. He pushed to his feet and moved to the back of the store, clearing a space between overturned racks. "You keep those," he said, voice flat but not unkind. "I'll teach you."
She almost laughed—half from shock, half from relief—but instead she clutched the hilts until her knuckles whitened. He nodded once and handed her one sword to feel the balance. "Grip like this," he said, closing her fingers around the leather with a practiced motion. "Not like you're holding a toy." His hands were rough and certain; the way he corrected her thumb made her trust him a little more.
First came stance. He shoved his shoulder back, showed her how to plant her feet—one forward, one back, knees soft. "Lower your center. You won't fall over if you get hit." He demonstrated, slow, efficient, a pivot that put weight where it belonged. She copied, awkward at first, wobbling until muscle memory caught up and her legs felt like they belonged to someone steadier.
He started with the basics: how to bring the blade up and down without flinging It, how to keep the tip under control, how to breathe with a strike. "Don't shout," he told her when she let out a frightened sound on the first swing. "Sound gives away position." The lesson was practical, blunt—every correction stripped of sentiment. But each time his voice clipped at a mistake, she learned quicker.
They worked until the sun sank and orange spilled through the broken windows. He made her practice footwork while he held a scrap of wood as a target. Step, turn, strike—step, turn, strike—until the movement started to stop feeling foreign. Sometimes he took the sword from her and showed her again, his hands on the leather, his forearms flexing, then pushed the weapon back into her hands like passing a torch.
When she fumbled, he didn't scold. He simply made her do it again, slower. When she managed a clean cut that didn't wobble at the end, a ghost of a nod passed his features—almost approval, muted but real. She spun once by accident and laughed, a sharp, sudden sound that surprised them both. He allowed the smallest of smiles before it vanished.
Between drills, they scavenged: oil for the blades, cloth to wrap sore spots, a scrap of rope to make a practice target. At night he slept with the swords within reach; during the day he let her try different grips, different swings. The training was not romanticized—callouses grew, palms blistered, muscles burned—but she slept deeper than she had in weeks.
By the time the month closed, she could hold both swords without slumping, could step and cut in time with his practiced rhythm. She still moved like a child when she stumbled, but there were moments—two, three heartbeats long—where she looked like a person who could defend herself. He watched those moments like a man cataloguing useful things. "Tomorrow," he said one evening, checking the edge with a piece of scrap metal, "we spar. Light." The word 'tomorrow' came loaded with promise and threat.
Morning came sharp and gray, the air damp with the smell of rain. He stood in the cleared aisle of the ruined store, blade in hand, his stance loose but deliberate. Crystal tightened her grip on her swords, her stomach twisting as she faced him. The weight in her arms still felt heavy, but she'd grown used to it—enough to believe she could swing without dropping them.
"Feet first," he reminded, tapping the cracked floor with his boot. "Always feet first."
She slid into the stance he'd drilled into her—one leg forward, knees soft, shoulders squared. Her arms trembled just a little.
Then he moved. Not fast, not full force—just a testing swing, angled toward her shoulder. Instinct screamed louder than training, and she flinched, bringing both swords up in a sloppy cross. Metal clanged against metal, the vibration shooting through her arms. She stumbled back two steps; teeth clenched.
"Better than nothing," he muttered. "Again."
The next strike came sharper, aimed low. She remembered his words—don't stand stiff, move—and shuffled sideways, swinging awkwardly as she tried to counter. The blade glanced his side, no damage, but enough to make him grunt approval.
They circled. He didn't let up. Light cuts, feints, little pushes to keep her stumbling, to keep her learning. She tripped once over her own foot, hit the ground, and scrambled back up before he could bark at her. Sweat beaded on her forehead, breath ragged, but she kept swinging. Every clash rang through the empty store like church bells for the dead.
At last, he knocked one sword from her hand. It clattered across the floor. She froze, chest heaving, panic bubbling in her throat. But instead of stopping, he barked, "Pick it up."
Her legs wobbled, but she dove for the weapon, gripping it hard, and came up swinging with a desperate cry. The strike was wild, ugly—but for a heartbeat, he had to block it with both hands. Her eyes lit, startled by her own strength.
He shoved her back, ending the session. His expression was unreadable, but his voice carried the faintest edge of respect. "Not useless," he said. "Not anymore."
Crystal's chest heaved, sweat dripping down her brow, but she couldn't help the spark that flared in her eyes. For the first time, she believed she might stand a chance in this broken world. The clatter of her sword hitting the ground still echoed when a new sound bled into the ruined store—wet, ragged breathing. Both of them turned at once. From the shadow of a broken aisle, an infected lurched into view. Its clothes hung in shreds, skin torn and mottled, mouth working open and shut with a low, hungry moan.
Crystal's chest seized. Every instinct screamed to hide, to run—but the man didn't move to intercept. He only stepped back, blade loose at his side. His eyes flicked to her, sharp and final.
"Your turn."
Her stomach dropped. "W-what?"
"Kill it."
The infected snarled and staggered toward her, faster now. Up close Crystal could see threads of bloodied meat stuck between its teeth. She turned pale and fumbled her swords into her hands, the hilts slick with sweat. Her first swing went wide, slicing air. The second scraped across its shoulder, biting shallow but not enough. The thing shrieked, stumbling, then lunged. She screamed, stumbling backward, raising both blades in panic. Metal scraped bone, but still the monster pushed closer, teeth gnashing inches from her face.
Her arms shook violently, her strength giving out. The edge of one sword nicked its jaw, tearing skin but not stopping it. Hot spit splattered her cheek as it forced her down, its weight crushing her. Tears blurred her vision—she was going to fail; she was going to die—
Then, in a single motion, steel flashed. The man's blade cut clean through the creature's neck. Its body slumped, head rolling across the cracked floor before bumping into a shelf with a dull thud.
Crystal lay panting beneath the corpse until he kicked it aside and offered her nothing—not a hand, not a word of comfort. Just a flat stare, unreadable. Then he finally spoke, voice rough as gravel:
"You hesitate again… you're dead."
The words burned sharper than the fear had. Crystal tightened her grip on the swords, forcing herself upright, jaw set despite the tremble still running through her arms. Crystal's chest heaved, each breath burning her throat, but she forced her shaking hands to tighten around the swords. No tears. No breaking. Not here. She pushed herself up, wobbling at first, then steadying her stance the way he'd drilled into her. Her lip quivered, but she bit it hard until the taste of copper filled her mouth.
The man watched, waiting for her to crack. She didn't. She only lifted her chin, eyes fixed on him, blades still raised even though her arms screamed with exhaustion. For a heartbeat, the silence was heavier than the corpse at her feet.
Finally, he gave a short grunt—not approval, not quite—but something close. He cleaned his blade with a strip of cloth and turned toward the door. "Again," he muttered, as if the fight hadn't just nearly killed her. "Next time, faster."
Crystal let her arms drop only when his back was turned. Her whole body trembled, legs ready to buckle, but inside her chest something hot and fierce burned brighter than the fear. She had survived. And next time, she swore, she wouldn't need him to step in.
They ate in silence, the fire crackling low between them. Crystal's hands still shook faintly as she tore into the dry food, he'd tossed her, the memory of the infected guttural shriek clinging to her ears. Across the flames, Ryu sat sharpening his sword, his movements steady and practiced, sparks glinting like tiny fireflies.
She swallowed hard, then forced the words out.
"…What's your name?"
For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. Ryu didn't look up, the scrape of steel on stone dragging on like he hadn't heard her. Crystal's stomach knotted. She stared at the dirt, already wishing she hadn't asked.
But then the scraping stopped.
His voice came quiet, rough, but softer than she'd ever heard it.
"Ryu."
She blinked, lifting her head. His eyes flicked toward her—just for a second—before darting back to the blade. It wasn't much, barely a glance, but it carried something she hadn't seen in him before. Not trust, not yet… but maybe the shadow of it.
Ryu slid the sword back into its sheath with deliberate care. "Get some sleep. We move early."
The words were curt, but there was no bite in them this time. Crystal curled up near the fire, a small spark of warmth blooming in her chest. For the first time since this nightmare began, she felt like she wasn't entirely alone.