City B, November 5th? Year 0 of the Great Collapse
The faint glow of a battered candle flickered weakly in Winter's room, casting shadows that danced across the peeling walls. He sat on the edge of a worn cot, his shirt discarded on the floor, a faint metallic scent of blood and antiseptic lingering in the air.
His hand hovered over the bandage that woman had wrapped around his wound, her touch still ghosting his skin. He scowled at the memory—not only at her, but at the base they were stuck in, and at himself for letting his guard slip.
The separation wasn't a coincidence. He'd noticed the careful positioning of their rooms, the way their paths never seemed to cross again after arriving.
It has been a day now and he was yet to see his so called "wife."
They wanted control, to keep him and Zara isolated, vulnerable. He didn't need to ask why; this wasn't the first time he'd dealt with manipulative survivors.
