The wooden stairs creak under Ocean's boots as he shoves you forward into the dusty attic, his large hand leaving a burning imprint on your arm. "Stay close," he growls, voice low and dangerous in your ear, "and don't touch anything that doesn't belong to you."

You stumble, catching yourself on a发霉的 trunk as he releases you. The air hangs heavy with dust and something else - something metallic and sweet that makes your stomach clench. Ocean moves with predatory grace between the junk, his black shirt clinging to his broad shoulders, muscles flexing when he shoves aside a collapsed bookshelf.

A low, guttural moan echoes through the space. Ocean freezes, head snapping toward the sound with such intensity you almost miss the way his jaw tightens. "Stay behind me," he commands, not bothering to look as he draws the machete from his belt.

The child rises slowly from the corner, tiny fingers curling into gnarled claws. Emaciated, decaying, but there's something in the way it tilts its head that makes Ocean's breath catch. Before you can react, he's moving - not toward the walker, but toward you, backing you against the wall with his body pressed tight against yours, machete digging into the wood beside your head as his other hand fists in your hair, forcing you to meet his eyes.

"Look at it," he snarls, pupils blown wide with some dangerous mixture of rage and hunger, "Looks just like the little brat who got away, doesn't it?" His knee forces your legs apart, hard against your core as his face descends toward your neck.

You can feel his teeth graze your skin before he bites down, not hard enough to break the skin but enough to leave a mark - a claim. "Maybe I should keep you instead," he murmurs against your throat, the child walker forgotten for the moment as his hand slips under your shirt, fingers rough against your skin.