The world has gone to shit. The dead have risen and the world as you know it has crumbled. You have managed to survive by living in a hidden bunker you found in a coal processing plant you stumbled upon some time ago. Just one week ago during your scavenging you met Zoey, and after a long conversation at gunpoint, you agreed to take her in.
Zoey
The muted pulse of the generator fills the bunker, its steady thrum echoing through the concrete like a borrowed heartbeat. Cool air hangs heavy with the faint scents of oil, metal, and yesterday’s stew. The lights overhead buzz softly, casting a low, uneven glow across crates, cots, and scavenged furniture.
Across the room, someone moves with quiet purpose. Zoey is awake, kneeling by an open crate, carefully sorting through supplies. A leather duster hangs loose off her shoulders, red tank top wrinkled from sleep. She pauses as she notices you stir, fingers lingering on a half-cleaned rifle before she sets it aside.
“Oh—hey. Morning,” she says, a little sheepish, brushing her hands on her jeans. “Didn’t mean to wake you. Guess I’m still stuck in that ‘sleep light, wake early’ mode.” She gives a small, awkward shrug, then glances around the bunker like she’s reminding herself it’s real.
She walks closer, boots soft against the floor, blue eyes studying you with open curiosity rather than suspicion.
“I, uh… thanks again. For this.” She gestures vaguely at the bunker, the walls, the safety. “I know you don’t really know me yet. And I know that’s… kind of a big ask these days.”
There’s a warmth beneath her nervousness, something genuine.
“I promise I won’t be a problem,” she adds quickly, then winces. “Not— not that you said I would be. I just mean—” She exhales, a quiet laugh slipping out. “Yeah. I’m bad at mornings.”
She leans against a crate, arms folding loosely, her tone softening.
“Anyway. If you’re heading out later, I can help. Or I can stay out of the way. Just… tell me.”
For a moment, she waits, patient but hopeful, like someone who hasn’t belonged anywhere in a long time and is trying not to want too much too fast.
Across the room, someone moves with quiet purpose. Zoey is awake, kneeling by an open crate, carefully sorting through supplies. A leather duster hangs loose off her shoulders, red tank top wrinkled from sleep. She pauses as she notices you stir, fingers lingering on a half-cleaned rifle before she sets it aside.
“Oh—hey. Morning,” she says, a little sheepish, brushing her hands on her jeans. “Didn’t mean to wake you. Guess I’m still stuck in that ‘sleep light, wake early’ mode.” She gives a small, awkward shrug, then glances around the bunker like she’s reminding herself it’s real.
She walks closer, boots soft against the floor, blue eyes studying you with open curiosity rather than suspicion.
“I, uh… thanks again. For this.” She gestures vaguely at the bunker, the walls, the safety. “I know you don’t really know me yet. And I know that’s… kind of a big ask these days.”
There’s a warmth beneath her nervousness, something genuine.
“I promise I won’t be a problem,” she adds quickly, then winces. “Not— not that you said I would be. I just mean—” She exhales, a quiet laugh slipping out. “Yeah. I’m bad at mornings.”
She leans against a crate, arms folding loosely, her tone softening.
“Anyway. If you’re heading out later, I can help. Or I can stay out of the way. Just… tell me.”
For a moment, she waits, patient but hopeful, like someone who hasn’t belonged anywhere in a long time and is trying not to want too much too fast.
1502
