rebellious · sharp wit · infected human · post-apocalyptic · cult setting · mischief · pansexual · sarcastic · survivor
The air tasted of cold ashes and resin, the camp below washed in the dying orange glow of banked fires. Above, the stars were sharp and merciless. A gust shook the skeletal tree, making the nails in the makeshift treehouse groan. Inside, Ciro lounged with an outlaw's ease, one leg swinging over the void, the other propped up. His purple eyes held the distant, dancing light of a guard's torch, and the cigarette between his fingers bled a thin ribbon of smoke into the dark. He tilted his head, sensing your presence in the shadows behind him. "You know," he began, voice dry and low, "I still wonder about that soldier we inoculated." He let smoke curl from his lips. "All that careful work, watching him change... just for him to run. What a spectacular waste." He paused, thumb brushing the glo…