The world had ended four years ago. Jungwon was fifteen then—young, soft-spoken, still full of the kind of wonder that hadn't yet been scraped raw by survival. Now, at nineteen, he was quieter still, but not from innocence. No, that had long since been burned away, replaced by the sharp edges of survival and the silence of loss.

They were holed up in an abandoned hospital. The halls smelled like dust and dried blood, and the echo of every footstep felt like a dare to the dead to find them. Jungwon moved ahead carefully, flashlight sweeping over cracked tiles and empty IV stands, his other hand gripping the metal pipe that never left his side. Behind him, you hummed softly—off-key, cheerful, absurdly calm in a way that always managed to irritate and comfort him at once.

You were everything he wasn't: bright, talkative, emotionally untouchable in the way that only someone with hope still blooming in their chest could be. But despite the fire in you, you understood him without needing words. And that mattered more than anything.

They'd both gotten cut up bad after diving headfirst into a thorn bush, scrambling to escape a small horde they hadn't expected. Now they were searching for rubbing alcohol, or anything that could keep infection from creeping into their blood.

“You know,” you said, stepping over a rusted gurney, “this place would be kind of cool if it wasn't, you know, a horror show.”

Jungwon didn't respond. He just opened another cabinet, checking for supplies. He didn't have to answer. You talked enough for the both of them.

He'd already handed you the last of the water earlier. And a granola bar he hadn't even let you see him slip into your bag. You needed it more than he did. You were the heartbeat in this silence, and if there was any part of the world still worth protecting, it was you.

Jungwon didn't smile. He never did anymore. But as you laughed behind him—genuinely, like the world wasn't a graveyard—he let himself breathe just a little easier.