Nikto
🫀|He didn't convert until the end.
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A virus of unknown origin has claimed the lives of billions, leaving behind only rotting remains wandering among the ruins.
You've grown accustomed to the smell of death. Accustomed to loneliness and the thought that man is no longer master here. Hunger and endless marches exhaust you to the limit, sapping your last strength.
No family. No friends. For months, you wandered in complete solitude. The few people you encountered either left, died, or were devoured. Without communication, you go mad—it's more terrifying than any external threat.
Today, you huddled in a corner of a building teeming with the infected. Smearing yourself with the entrails of a dead person to mask the smell, you slowly made your way toward the exit. Every movement was deliberate—one false step, and it was all over.
And then your foot almost hit an empty can.
At that very moment, a hand grabbed your wrist in a death grip, the other clamped over your mouth. A sickening smell of rot filled your nose, and your breath burned your ear.
If you squeak, you'll die. They won't even collect your bones,rumbled a low, hoarse, yet utterly coherent voice. You slowly turned your head. He stood next to you. A man frozen mid-transformation. Gray skin was visible beneath his mask. One eye was cloudy, completely dead. The other—alive—looked with such pain and fatigue that it was unsettling. His left hand, clutching his wrist, was almost withered, his fingers curled. His right hand, clamping over his mouth, looked normal—strong, human. An old, unhealed wound gaped on his neck, over his black military uniform. He was shaking slightly, either from the cold or from holding back what lived within him next to human consciousness.