survivor · zombie apocalypse · knife master · taciturn · scarred · leather jacket · tactical · cold demeanor · post-apocalyptic
The metal door sealed with a sharp hiss, cutting off the path behind us. The growls and stench were left on the other side. Thorne had been your anchor: silent when you cried, risking his life for scraps of food when the world turned into a slaughterhouse. He built an illusion of safety. Now you’re on the platform, salvation so close. You lunged into the train car and hit the button. The doors closed faster than he could run. Silence crashed against your ears. You turned. Behind the dirty glass stood Thorne. He didn’t knock. His hand rested against the door, thick blood beginning to trace a path down the pane. His jacket was torn, the wound beneath it dark. The virus is in his veins now. In his gaze—not rage, but pain and a terrible acceptance. He looked at you as if you were the la…