CHAPTER 8

"I said strip." His voice was cold, and I could see the fear behind his eyes now, the paranoia that had likely been keeping him alive. "I need to check. You could have been scratched or bitten, and I'm not about to let some infected in here."

I stared at him, disbelief and panic flooding my mind. "I… I swear I'm clean—"

"Prove it," he cut me off, his tone sharp, leaving no room for argument. He stepped back just a little, giving me space, but his stance was tense, his hands balled into fists. He didn't trust me. I could see that plain as day.

I wanted to scream, to tell him no, but what choice did I have? The hallway outside was crawling with those monsters, and my apartment was useless now. If I ran, I would be dead in minutes. Here, at least, I had a slim chance of surviving.

With shaking hands, I reached for the hem of my shirt, my fingers trembling as I slowly pulled it up over my head. My skin prickled with embarrassment and fear, and I kept my eyes locked on the floor, trying to block out the humiliation burning in my chest.

I glanced at him, who watched with a cold, assessing stare. He said nothing, just waited, as if this were some routine procedure he had done a hundred times before. Maybe it was. Maybe he had turned away others before me.

I swallowed hard and slipped out of my jeans, feeling exposed and vulnerable under his gaze. My body trembled, not just from the cold air, but from the overwhelming fear gnawing at my insides. I stood there in my underwear, arms wrapped around myself, trying to cover as much as I could.

"All of it," he ordered, his voice still flat, emotionless.

My throat tightened, and I fought back tears. I wanted to yell at him, tell him how wrong this was. But I was too afraid. Too scared of being thrown out there with the monsters. Slowly, I undid my bra, letting it fall to the floor, and then, with shaking hands, I removed the last piece of clothing.

His eyes scanned me from head to toe, his expression never changing. It wasn't lust. It wasn't anger. It was survival. And somehow, that made it worse.

He stepped closer, his hands hovering near my arms, but not touching me. He leaned in, his eyes narrowing as he inspected my skin, looking for any marks, any signs of infection. I stood there, frozen, every second stretching out into an eternity.

Finally, after what felt like forever, he stepped back. "Alright," he muttered, nodding. "You're clean."

I let out a shaky breath, relief flooding me, but the shame still clung to my skin, thick and heavy. I scrambled to grab my clothes, pulling them back on as fast as I could, my hands still trembling. My heart pounded in my chest, and I felt sick to my stomach.

When I was finally dressed again, he leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. "You stay quiet, follow my rules, and maybe you won't get yourself killed," he said, his tone as harsh as ever. "But make no mistake. I won't hesitate to throw you out if you're a liability."

I nodded, too shaken to argue. He wasn't my savior. He wasn't my friend. He was just as scared and desperate as I was, and I knew that in this new world we found ourselves, trust won't come easy.

Once I'd hurriedly pulled my clothes back on, his eyes darted to the backpack slung over my shoulder. His posture shifted, arms still crossed, but the tension in his body told me he wasn't done with me yet.

"Hand over your bag," he said, voice sharp.

I froze, clutching the strap of my bag instinctively, like a lifeline. No, not that. It's all I have left. My mouth went dry, and I stared at him, feeling my heart begin to race all over again.

"Why?" I managed to ask, though the question came out barely above a whisper.

"Because I need to see what you've got." He stepped forward, holding out a hand. "I'm not letting you bring anything in here that's going to get me killed. Weapons, food, whatever's in there, I need to know. Now."

I hesitated, gripping the strap tighter. It's all I have left. My supplies, my food, my only chance to make it through this.

He narrowed his eyes, the air between us growing thick with tension. "Look, you want to stay here? You follow the rules. I'm not asking again."

I swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his words press down on me. He wasn't bluffing. I had no choice. Slowly, reluctantly, I slipped the bag off my shoulder and handed it to him, feeling a pang of helplessness as he grabbed it.

He didn't waste time. He unzipped the bag and started rummaging through it, inspecting every item with quick, practiced hands. My stomach twisted with anxiety as I watched him go through the few meager things I had packed.

Cans of food, a water bottle, spare clothes, the knife—I hadn't had much time to gather anything useful.

He glanced at the knife and raised an eyebrow. "You planning on using this?"

I shook my head quickly. "It's for protection. I didn't know what else to bring."

He stared at me for a long moment, then tossed the knife onto the nearby table, keeping the rest of the supplies in the bag. "Food's mine now. You eat when I say. Got it?"

His words hit me like a punch to the gut. All of it? He's taking everything? I opened my mouth to protest, but the look in his eyes stopped me cold. He wasn't asking.

"Got it," I whispered, nodding, feeling the crushing weight of helplessness settle over me.

He slung the bag over his shoulder and walked away, disappearing into the small kitchen at the back of the apartment. I stood there, numb, trying to process what had just happened. I had nothing left now—no food, no safety, nothing that was really mine.

I hugged myself tightly, feeling the cold creep into my bones.