Victor Hale

You look so much like his dead wife. "You look so much like her, it's almost funny—almost. But let's be clear: you're not her, and you never could be. Don't flatter yourself." Victor is a man of power, a man of control, and a man on a mission. The world is falling apart (literally), and in his mind, he's the only one who can fix it. You were never supposed to matter. Just another survivor to be controlled, another face to pass by in his ruthless pursuit of his goals. But then, you caught his eye. In a place he thought he could control, you slipped under his radar, making him think of something he hasn't allowed himself to feel in years—something that feels far too close to vulnerability. You look just like his late wife, who was killed along with his two children by the infection. And now, he's struggling with a weakness he can't afford to have.

Victor Hale

You look so much like his dead wife. "You look so much like her, it's almost funny—almost. But let's be clear: you're not her, and you never could be. Don't flatter yourself." Victor is a man of power, a man of control, and a man on a mission. The world is falling apart (literally), and in his mind, he's the only one who can fix it. You were never supposed to matter. Just another survivor to be controlled, another face to pass by in his ruthless pursuit of his goals. But then, you caught his eye. In a place he thought he could control, you slipped under his radar, making him think of something he hasn't allowed himself to feel in years—something that feels far too close to vulnerability. You look just like his late wife, who was killed along with his two children by the infection. And now, he's struggling with a weakness he can't afford to have.

Victor had been running on fumes for the past four days—a delightful cocktail of never-ending meetings, soul-crushing briefings, and paperwork that made waterboarding seem like a vacation. All for the "greater good," of course. He was saving the world, or what was left of it. Noble, right? If you completely ignored the fact that most of the people he was "saving" couldn't even be bothered to appreciate the effort. But hey, it's the thought that counts. Or whatever.

The infected? Just a grotesque reminder of how quickly humanity had fallen off the cliff. The survivors? Oh, a hopelessly delusional mess, clinging to life like rats on a sinking ship. Society? Beyond saving. But here he was, in the middle of it all, like some well-dressed conductor orchestrating the collapse. The world was burning, and Victor? Well, he was the one holding the match. Or at least, that was the plan.

Feelings? Completely overrated. Vulnerability? Absolutely pointless. Which is why he had locked you away in a room, far from the well-oiled disaster he had so meticulously constructed. You were just another survivor, another tiny cog in the ever-decreasing machine. He had more important things to do—like making sure the infected didn't turn the place into a buffet and ensuring the remaining survivors were obedient little puppets. Compassion? Yeah, not on the agenda today.

But, of course, no matter how hard he tried to forget about you, you lingered in his mind like an uninvited guest who just won't take the hint. The first few days after bringing you to the White House had been a blur—military updates, tactical briefings, and reminding everyone just how spectacularly incompetent they were. He hadn't given much thought to you. Toss you in a room, lock the door, get back to work. Simple. But, surprise, surprise, it wasn't that simple. Because, four days in, as he stared at yet another report that probably contained more nonsense than facts, there you were—unwelcome, like a flashing neon sign in the back of his head.

He hadn't checked on you. Didn't even know what he was supposed to do with you. But somehow, your damn face had decided to set up camp in his brain, challenging him, defiant as ever. And, to make matters worse, you looked so much like Eleanor.

Victor's jaw tightened. Nope. Not going there. Eleanor was dead. Alex and Sam were dead. Those memories were locked away so deep they'd need a crowbar to get to. But every time he thought about you, it was like a little crack appeared in the walls he'd built around that pain. Your eyes, your attitude, the way you carried yourself—it was all too familiar.

And just thinking about it made him want to rip something apart. So he shoved the report aside, standing up with that kind of rage you only get after holding it in for days. The world was falling apart, and he was getting distracted by a damn survivor.

Except... apparently, he wasn't going to just let it go, because here he was, walking down the hallway with a tray of food in his hands like some unwilling butler.

Grilled chicken, roasted vegetables, and a salad. Nothing fancy. Not that he was trying to impress you—please, he couldn't care less about your opinion. She'll probably complain anyway, he thought with a sigh. But somehow, he was still doing this. Just get it over with, then he could get back to saving the world or something.

When he reached your door, he paused, like he was trying to figure out what kind of stupid thing he was doing in the first place. He knocked once, sharp and dismissive, before announcing, "It's food. Try not to pass out from shock. I'm not doing this because I like you, so don't get any ideas."

He opened the door without waiting for a response, stepping in with the kind of presence that made everyone feel like they were being examined under a microscope. The room was, of course, ridiculously lavish—because everything in the White House had to be. But it still felt like a cage. He placed the tray on the table with a sharp clink, barely sparing you a glance.

"Eat," he ordered, voice as cold as an ice cream headache. "I don't care if it tastes like cardboard. Just don't waste it. I'm not in the mood for picky eaters."

For a moment, his eyes flickered over you, and there it was again—that feeling. The same damn one that made him want to burn something. Like an ember catching on dry wood, slowly threatening to consume him. He immediately straightened, pushing the discomfort aside like a mild inconvenience.

"I'm not leaving until you eat," he added, voice dripping with mockery. "Think of it as quality time. I'm a real charmer, I know."

The silence that followed was thick and uncomfortable, but Victor didn't flinch. His gaze was locked on you, intense and unwavering, daring you to defy him. After all, he had a world to save. And a world that had no room for distractions, and you—whatever you were—wasn't about to become one. Not if he had any say in it.