The blood on my coat is drying.

  It sticks in places, flakes in others. I feel it tightening across my back like a second skin, stiff and cracked. My hands are still trembling. Not from fear. Not from pain. Just the aftershock.

  The wall behind me creaks. Footsteps follow. I don’t look up.

  “Rex!”

  Mark.

  I stay where I am, sword still hanging from my fingers, the blade smeared with gore. I’m kneeling in the middle of a street that isn’t a street anymore—just broken pavement, blood puddles, twitching limbs.

  “Are you insane?” he snaps, boots thudding closer. “You could’ve died out there!”

  Could have.

  Should have, maybe.

  I don’t answer.

  “Rex, look at me.”

  I finally turn my head. Mark looks pissed. And tired. Blood across his jaw—not his. Eyes wild. Chest still rising fast from the sprint.

  He waits for me to say something. I don’t.

  He exhales, frustrated. “You think you’re invincible or something?”

  I sheath the blade.

  “You’re bleeding,” he says, softer now.

  I glance down. My thigh’s soaked. Shoulder too. The rib wound itches under the layers.

  “It’s nothing,” I mutter.

  “It’s not nothing,” another voice cuts in. “You tore the stitches.”

  Marisol. She pushes past Mark and kneels beside me, already peeling gloves off, already cursing under her breath.

  “You made it three damn days without reopening it. And now look at you.”

  She pulls a roll of gauze from her bag and starts wrapping without waiting for permission.

  I flinch. Not from the pain—just from her touch. It feels too familiar.

  She works fast. Efficient. Her hands know what they’re doing.

  Of course they do.

  “I told you to take it easy,” she mutters. “But no. Sword-swinging bloodbath hero act instead. Unbelievable.”

  Mark sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “You really aren’t gonna stay, are you?”

  I don’t answer.

  Marisol finishes the bandage, ties it off tight. “You need rest. Real rest. And a tetanus shot. And antibiotics. And stitches.”

  I stand. Slowly. Carefully. “I’ll take a rifle. And some rounds. That’s enough.”

  Marisol straightens up and steps in front of me. Her tone shifts.

  “No,” she says.

  I narrow my eyes.

  “You’re staying here until I say otherwise,” she adds, voice cold. “You don’t like it, too bad. You can growl, glare, stomp your boots—I don’t care. You’re staying. That’s final.”

  I growl under my breath. A warning. She doesn’t flinch.

  I hate that.

  “Fine,” I mutter.

  By the time we make it back to Eden’s main hall, the sun has burned most of the blood from the street, leaving behind only the stink.

  Wren is waiting for us at the entry steps. She has a fresh cut across her cheek and soot smudged on her collar, but her expression is unshaken. Cool and composed.

  Her eyes flick to me.

  “Not bad,” she says, leaning against the frame. “I’ve seen a lot of people try to play hero out there. You’re one of the few who didn’t get eaten trying.”

  I don’t respond.

  She eyes my shoulder. “That’s gonna scar.”

  “Most things do,” I mutter.

  Wren lets out a short, amused breath. “Well, you ever get tired of wandering, there might be room here for someone with... initiative.”

  The way she says it—casual, but not. I know the type. I’ve seen them across loops. Bold, flirty, confident. The kind who always have followers. The kind who always survive.

  She holds my gaze a second too long before slipping past us into the hall.

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Mark catches the look. Raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything.

  Good.

  We check in at the clinic first. Luna’s awake.

  She’s propped up against a pile of blankets, left arm in a sling, the side wound stitched and padded. There are kids in the room—three of them, maybe seven or eight years old, sitting cross-legged on the floor with scrap-paper drawings in their hands. One’s holding a half-eaten apple. Another’s making a paper butterfly.

  Luna smiles at them like it doesn’t hurt to breathe.

  When she sees us, she waves weakly.

  “Look who’s back,” she says. “The sword guy and the shouty one.”

  Mark laughs. “Pretty sure I had a name last time.”

  “It’s been a long three days,” she says, deadpan.

  I blink.

  It catches me off guard.

  The tone. The dryness. The smile that doesn't reach her eyes.

  It’s the way she used to talk.

  My Luna.

  And just like that, the wound inside me twists.

  I look away.

  Luna doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she does and chooses not to care. The kids gather their things and scamper out with promises to come back with better drawings. One of them calls her 'General Luna' and salutes before ducking out the door. She watches them go, her face softening.

  "I need to get back on my feet soon," she says quietly, almost to herself. "Leader’s got a raid planned. Old police station a few blocks east—we think there’s ammo still locked in the armory."

  Mark looks up. "You’re not cleared for anything like that yet."

  She shrugs one shoulder. "Don’t have to be. He wants me there. Says I’m good at reading a room and keeping things from going sideways."

  I raise an eyebrow. "Leader sounds like he expects a fight."

  Luna nods slowly. "He always does. He says if we wait for clean chances, we’ll starve first. Besides, people follow plans better when I’m around. He wants results."

  She doesn’t say it like she’s bragging. Just stating a fact. Like a soldier reading a mission brief.

  “They come in every day now,” she says, quieter. “Some of them lost their parents to the last outbreak. Others just need a place to feel safe. Figured if I’m stuck in here, might as well be useful.”

  Mark sits at the foot of her cot. I stay standing.

  “So,” Luna says, turning her eyes on me. “You going to tell me your name now, or keep brooding until the stitches fall out?”

  “Rex.”

  She tilts her head. “Just Rex?”

  “It’s enough.”

  She smirks. “Mysterious. Broody. Self-loathing aura. Yep. Checks out.”

  Mark coughs to hide a laugh.

  “You saved me,” Luna adds, more sincerely now. “So... thanks. Again. I remember you, you know. From before. Couple months back? You pulled me out of a scavenger ambush. Didn’t say much then, either.”

  I blink again. Of course she remembered.

  Of course this loop wouldn’t let me disappear cleanly.

  “Yeah,” I say. “That was me.”

  Marisol walks in with a clipboard, gives me a glare, then checks Luna’s vitals.

  “Good progress,” she says. “If you don’t push it, you’ll be up in another couple days.”

  “Define push it,” Luna says.

  “No rooftop races. No knife fights. No sarcasm at full volume.”

  “So... nothing fun.”

  Marisol rolls her eyes. She catches my glance and her smile fades.

  “Don’t even think about sneaking out again,” she says.

  I raise a hand in mock surrender.

  But even now, I feel the pull.

  The road. The woods. The silence.

  The distance I’d carved between me and everything else.

  And for some reason, it’s harder to want it now.

  That bothers me more than I want to admit.

  Later, Mark and I stand outside the clinic, watching the light shift over Eden’s patchwork skyline.

  I light a cigarette. Inhale. Let it fill the silence.

  Mark waves the smoke away, grinning faintly.

  “You’re gonna rot your lungs out,” he mutters.

  “Already did,” I say, offering him one.

  He shakes his head. “Nah. I don’t like the smell.”

  Yeah. Of course not.

  I exhale a long stream of smoke, watching it fade into the dusk.

  “You really don’t like staying still, huh?” he says eventually.

  I shrug.

  He folds his arms. “You scare the hell out of me, you know that?”

  I arch a brow.

  “No, seriously. Charging into a horde like that. Bleeding. Alone. It’s like you don’t even care.”

  I glance at the cigarette. “Sometimes I don’t.”

  He nods, like he expected that.

  “Places like this have a way of feeling familiar,” I murmur.

  Mark looks at me, puzzled.

  I don’t clarify.

  But the truth is: in almost every loop, Mark ends up being my best friend. Even when he doesn’t know it. Even when it’s cut short.

  That’s probably why it hurts so much every time I lose him.

  He looks out at the walls. “You ever think about what it would look like if we actually fixed this place? Not just survived it.”

  “Every time,” I say.

  He blinks. “What?”

  “Nothing,” I lie.

  Night falls.

  I sit alone at the edge of the inner wall, boots dangling, rifle beside me. A bottle of something cheap and harsh in my hand. It burns, but I like the burn.

  The blood’s off me. The wounds are bandaged. But I still feel stained.

  I take a long pull from the bottle and rest it on my thigh. The silence is thick. Comfortable, almost. Until it isn’t.

  Footsteps.

  “Didn’t peg you for the drinking type,” Wren says.

  I offer her the bottle without looking at her. She takes it, sips, winces like I knew she would.

  “Figures,” she mutters, and hands it back.

  She sits beside me. Not too close. But close enough.

  We sit for a moment, quiet.

  “Hard day?” she asks.

  I take another drink. “Just another one.”

  “You didn’t have to go out there alone, you know.”

  I don’t respond. The answer is obvious.

  She keeps watching me. I can feel it.

  “You’ve got that look,” she says.

  “What look?”

  “Like you’re a hundred miles away. Or a hundred years.”

  She’s not wrong.

  She leans her head back against the wall, eyes up at the sky. “I’ve seen a lot of guys swing swords and try to look cool. You didn’t look cool. You looked… angry. Like you wanted them to keep coming.”

  I take another drink.

  “I was angry.”

  “Still are.”

  I nod.

  She glances at me sideways. “You ever let anyone in, Rex?”

  “No point.”

  “Why’s that?”

  I hesitate. Then shrug. “Because everyone dies. Or forgets me.”

  She doesn’t reply. Just hums low in her throat.

  “You know,” I say after a while, “I used to think that if I kept my distance, I wouldn’t lose anything. Wouldn’t feel anything. But it doesn’t work like that. Turns out you feel it anyway.”

  “Sounds lonely.”

  “It is.”

  She doesn’t try to fix it. Just sips again and hands the bottle back.

  “I’m not easy to tangle,” I add, meeting her eyes.

  “Good,” she says softly. “I don’t want easy.”

  The way she says it… there’s weight in her voice. She’s not playing. Not completely.

  We sit in silence again. For a while.

  I take another drink. Let the burn settle.

  “I hate myself,” I whisper, almost too quiet to hear.

  Wren doesn’t look surprised.

  “For what?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say.

  She studies me for a moment. Maybe waiting for more. I don’t give it.

  The bottle comes back around. I take another drink, slower this time. The silence stretches.

  Wren shifts beside me. Closer now. Shoulder brushing mine.

  “You know,” she says, her voice soft but sure, “you don’t have to be alone in this. Just for tonight.”

  I don’t answer.

  She doesn’t push. Just leans against me, warm and steady. I feel the edge of the bottle in my hand tilt again.

  I close my eyes.

  I’m sorry, Luna.

  And when I open them, I let Wren take my hand.

  We stand. We don’t speak.

  And we disappear into the dark.

  And when the bottle’s nearly empty, she leans in. Not rushed. Not desperate.

  “If you’re not planning on sleeping,” she whispers, “I can help with that.”

  I look at her.

  I want to say no.

  But I don’t.

  Because for one night, I want to pretend.

  We stand. We don’t speak.

  And we disappear into the dark.