As the hours dragged on, the gnawing emptiness in my stomach became increasingly unbearable, sharpening my anxiety and frustration. My rescuer sat silently by the window, eyes fixed on the desolate streets, her posture rigid and vigilant. Eventually, desperation drove me to break the oppressive silence.

  "Do you have anything to eat?" I asked quietly, embarrassment coloring my voice despite my attempt at casualness. My stomach twisted painfully, emphasizing the urgency of my request.

  She glanced over sharply, eyes narrowed suspiciously. "You're not touching any of my supplies," she said firmly, voice devoid of sympathy. "Food's scarce enough without sharing it with someone who hasn't even earned his place here."

  I swallowed hard, embarrassment deepening into shame. "But I'm starving," I protested weakly, hoping to appeal to some small shred of compassion.

  She snorted softly, shaking her head dismissively. "Then you'd better learn fast how to earn your keep." She paused briefly, visibly debating something before continuing in a softer yet still stern tone. "Listen, out here, survival depends entirely on how strong, fast, and smart you become. And you only get stronger by facing the infected head-on."

  My confusion must have been obvious, prompting her to sigh irritably. "Look, it's simple—kill a hundred level-one roamers, and you'll get roughly a 0.01 percent increase in your strength. Level-two ferals are tougher but yield a 0.5 percent increase for every fifty you take down. Everything about you—your physical strength, mental sharpness, even regeneration—can be improved, Based upon the level of the creature."

  I stared at her incredulously, struggling to comprehend this bizarre reality, a hundred? how?. "How do you even keep track of something like that?"

  In response, she stood abruptly, turning her back to me and lifting the hem of her ragged shirt. My eyes widened in surprise as they settled on a faintly shimmering tattoo etched across her back, softly glowing in the dim candlelight. The intricate design displayed a detailed breakdown of her personal information—her name, age, physical stats like strength and speed, mental acuity, and regeneration capabilities.

  "This," she explained coolly, "is how you track it. Everyone who survives their first roamer kill develops one of these marks. Yours will appear after your first kill. Until then, you're running blind."

  My mind spun frantically, overwhelmed by the revelations. "So these tattoos—these marks—they just appear? How?"

  She dropped her shirt back down, turning to face me again, eyes glinting sharply. "It's the nature of the world now we dont completley understand all the nuances and changes that the Vaccine brought with it—it’s just another unexplained fact of survival. But there's more to it than that. Every roamer you kill has something valuable—at the base of their skulls is a small, pearl-like growth. These pearls are the main currency out here. Groups trade them for food, weapons, ammunition—everything needed to survive."

  She hesitated briefly, gauging my reaction before continuing. "But these pearls aren't just for trading. You dissolve one in alcohol, and it creates a potion—something that temporarily boosts your healing, strength, or speed, but carry’s the risk of mutation. Each type of infected gives different pearls, each with unique benefits and detriments. But harvesting them means getting up close and personal with something that wants nothing more than to tear you apart."

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  Her explanation left me stunned, dread and fascination mixing uncomfortably within me. The cold practicality of her world terrified me, yet deep within that fear lay the faintest spark of determination. If this was the harsh reality I faced, I had no choice but to adapt and survive.

  "So," she finished grimly, "if you're hungry, you'd better start learning how to fight. Because here, nothing is free. Especially survival." Her words echoed starkly in the silence that followed, heavy with harsh reality. My stomach tightened painfully again, hunger gnawing relentlessly, but now accompanied by a rising wave of anxiety. Fighting those creatures seemed unimaginable, yet her blunt explanation made it clear there was no alternative. Survival demanded sacrifice, risk, and a willingness to confront unimaginable horrors.

  Swallowing my apprehension, I glanced up at her hesitantly. “How do you even begin? Killing them, I mean. I’ve never fought anything like that in my life.”

  She regarded me skeptically, eyes narrowing with a hint of irritation. “Obviously. But you’ll have to learn fast, or you’ll die faster. Start small—level ones are slow, weak. Aim for the head, or you’ll just waste your energy. And trust me, you don’t have energy to waste.”

  I nodded, anxiety churning uncomfortably in my gut. The thought of fighting one of those grotesque, shambling creatures filled me with dread. Yet her blunt pragmatism made me realize the futility of fear.

  “Have you been doing this alone all this time?” I asked softly, admiration and curiosity mingling in my tone despite the underlying fear.

  She glanced away briefly, eyes darkening with memories she clearly had no desire to share. “Mostly,” she admitted quietly. “Occasionally, I’ve teamed up briefly when necessary—trading pearls, supplies, or information—but I’ve never stayed with any group. Too risky. Trust isn’t exactly abundant these days.”

  A faint note of bitterness colored her words, hinting at past betrayals and painful lessons learned. I sensed a deep-seated loneliness beneath her hardened exterior, briefly feeling a strange sense of empathy despite my own fear and confusion.

  “What about you?” she suddenly demanded, voice sharpening as suspicion returned to her gaze. “If you’re really as clueless as you seem, how did you even survive this long without encountering them?”

  I hesitated, feeling my cheeks flush slightly as embarrassment mixed with genuine confusion. “I told you—I don’t know. I was somewhere else entirely, someplace completely different from this. One minute I was falling down the stairs in my father’s cottage, and the next, I was here.”

  She shook her head slowly, skepticism deepening. “Look, whatever your story is, it’s not my concern. But until you get that first kill and unlock your mark, you’re a liability.”

  I nodded quietly, heart sinking with a mix of shame and determination. Her dismissive attitude stung, yet deep down, I knew she was right. Survival here meant action, not excuses or explanations.

  With a final sigh, she stood abruptly, gesturing toward the corner of the room. “Get some rest. Tomorrow, we’ll head out. You’ll have your first kill sooner than you’d like, I’m sure.”

  I settled back against the rough wall, hunger still gnawing painfully, yet tempered by a newfound resolve. Fear lingered, sharp and insistent, but her straightforward honesty had provided a strange sense of clarity. The path ahead was brutal and uncertain, but it was the only one available.

  As I closed my eyes, exhaustion gradually claiming me, I couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling that, despite my rescuer’s harsh demeanor, my survival might very well depend entirely on her guidance and willingness to help me navigate this horrific new world.