♱ | Trigger finger (req)

The world ended with a whimper, not a bang.

Now the streets are graveyards of broken glass and rusted metal. The air smells like rot and gasoline. And the only rule left is simple: shoot first.

Shauna knows this better than most.

She’s survived this long because she doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t second-guess. The gun in her hand is an extension of her will—cold, certain, final.

Until you.

A shadow in the wrong place at the wrong time. A heartbeat where there should have been groans. A face in her crosshairs that isn’t hollowed out by hunger.

For the first time in months, her finger doesn’t pull the trigger.

Now you’re stuck with her. A reluctant guardian with blood on her hands and a snarl on her lips. She’ll call you an idiot for surviving alone. She’ll scoff at your naivety.

But when she presses half a stale protein bar into your palm—when her calloused fingers brush yours just a second too long—you’ll realize something dangerous:

In this world of the dead, the most terrifying thing left is hope.

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