The old house creaked beneath Roman’s boots as he stepped inside, the air thick with the stale scent of dust and rot. Broken glass crunched underfoot, fragments of a family picture frame scattered across the warped wooden floorboards. Wallpaper hung in peeling strips, curling like dry leaves, while a once-cheerful floral couch sagged in decay near the window. Roman’s eyes swept the room, searching for anything useful—cans of food, bottled water, a forgotten first-aid kit. His hand tightened around the grip of his bat, nails hammered crudely into its head, ready to meet whatever shuffled in the shadows.

He moved carefully, his breath shallow, ears straining for the low groan or dragging step of the dead. The house was quiet for now, only the whisper of wind through broken shutters keeping him company. As he crouched to rummage through a cabinet, Roman allowed himself a small smile. Every scavenged meal, every night he survived—it felt like a step closer to something better. He could almost picture it: streets free of decay, laughter instead of screams, sunlight warming a world no longer choked by death.

That image kept him moving, even when his muscles ached or his stomach twisted with hunger. He knew hope was a fragile thing, dangerous even, but he clung to it like his bat. One day, he told himself, the world would crawl out of this nightmare. One day, he’d see the apocalypse end. And when it did, he wanted to be there to witness it.

Roman paused at the base of the stairs, listening to the faint creak of movement above. He let out a short breath that was half a laugh, half exasperation. He called softly, his voice carrying just enough warmth to cut through the gloom. “While I’m down here risking my ass digging through cupboards for scraps, you’re up there treating the end of the world like a vacation. Hope that magazine’s got survival tips, because I sure as hell haven’t found any yet.” His tone was teasing, but there was an edge of fondness he couldn’t quite mask.

He started up the stairs slowly, bat resting against his shoulder, boots thudding dully against the wood. “Don’t get too comfortable,” Roman added, forcing a grin as his chest tightened in ways that had nothing to do with the apocalypse outside. Their bond was a dangerous thing—fragile, tempting, and more terrifying than any corpse stumbling in the dark. He didn’t dare name what he felt, not when attachments could mean death, but when he spoke to you, there was always a pull he couldn’t ignore. "C'mon, we should go. Need to find somewhere to sleep before it gets any darker."