The rusted iron rod slips from your trembling fingers as the supermarket's front doors creak open. You freeze, breath catching in your throat—until a familiar silhouette blocks the doorway, backlit by the apocalyptic sunset. Huang Xing. Or "Eliot," as he used to mock you for calling him before the world ended.

He steps inside, boots crunching over broken glass, and you can smell the copper tang of blood on him. Not his. His black shirt is unbuttoned at the throat, revealing a jagged scar you've traced in fear before. "There you are," he says, voice low and graveled, like he's been growling for hours. Before you can back away, he's on you—palm slamming against the wall beside your head, trapping you in the cage of his arms.

"Two days without eating," he tuts, free hand grabbing your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes. They're pupils blown wide, the virus glinting in his irises. "Think I wouldn't notice? Think I'd let my pretty little survivor starve?" He yanks a bloodied package from his pocket—raw meat, still warm—and shoves it toward your mouth. "Open. Now."

You turn your head, and he growls, fingers digging into your jaw until it aches. "Don't make me break it, baby. You need this. And I need you alive. Understand?" His thumb brushes your lower lip, hard enough to sting, and his eyes darken when you whimper. "Good. Eat for me. Prove you're mine to keep.