The tension that night could've cut steel.
Jordan's katana stayed drawn, Leo's bat never lowered, and Maya's eyes flicked between Derek and the pale figure standing by the fire.
But Zane didn't move. He just stood there, arms crossed, that half-human, half-dead face unreadable.
Derek finally spoke, voice low but steady. "He's not a threat. If he wanted us dead, we'd be dead already."
Jordan stared hard, then slowly sheathed his katana. "Then he better start explaining."
Zane's gaze shifted to him, that one human eye glinting in the firelight. "No explanations. Just this—you want to live, you listen."
The tone wasn't arrogance. It was authority. The kind soldiers use when there's no time to argue.
And over the next few weeks, they did listen.
Zane trained them all.
He taught Derek how to fight without hesitation.
He made Maya stronger, teaching her to keep calm under pressure.
Leo learned to strike fast and predict movement.
And Jordan practiced with his katana until the blade became an extension of his arm.
Every day began before sunrise and ended after dusk. Zane pushed them until they collapsed, then pushed harder.
One night, exhausted and sitting around the dim fire, they finally opened up.
Derek broke the silence first. "Before all this… I worked at a mall. Night shifts. Studied part-time, tried to pay my own way through college." He chuckled weakly. "Didn't think swinging a mop would be training for the apocalypse."
Maya smiled faintly. "My dad was a chemist. He taught me everything about compounds and reactions. Guess it's paying off now that I can turn cleaning supplies into smoke bombs."
Leo leaned back, tossing a pebble into the flames. "My old man was military. The kind who believed emotion was weakness. He taught me how to fight… not how to care." His tone was bitter, but his eyes were softer than his words.
Jordan rested his katana across his knees. "Worked at a museum. Security. That's where I found this beauty." He glanced at the blade, its edge reflecting the firelight. "Now it's the only piece of history still worth anything."
They all turned to Zane.
The half-dead man sat in silence for a long time. The firelight flickered across the veins crawling under his skin.
"I was a marine," he said finally. His voice was calm, rehearsed. Too perfect.
No one questioned it, but they all felt the lie hang in the air like smoke.
Zane stared into the fire, his thoughts miles away. He wasn't ready to tell them the truth — not yet. The truth was uglier than death.
For now, he'd just keep teaching them how to live.