The sun rose grey.
Not golden. Not warm.
Just grey.
Like the sky itself had forgotten how to feel.
Lira stepped outside the ruined bar, pulling the collar of her stolen jacket tighter. The cold air bit at her cheeks. Her stomach growled like it always did now, but she didn't wince. Hunger had become background noise. Like wind. Like sirens. Like silence.
Micah was already standing at the edge of the cracked parking lot, one boot planted on a broken parking block, scanning the horizon with those tired, sharp eyes of his. He hadn't said much since last night.
That was fine.
Lira liked the quiet.
It gave her room to think.
And right now, she was thinking about what kind of woman she had to become.
"Something's moving," Micah said, pointing toward the east.
Lira stepped beside him, eyes narrowing.
Three people.
Walking slowly up the road.
Too slowly.
She squinted. Two men. One woman. Dirty. Armed. The kind that looked like they'd kill you for a working lighter. Not infected, though. No twitching. No mindless rage. These were still human.
That made them more dangerous.
"They see us?" she asked.
Micah nodded. "Yeah."
"Friends?"
"No such thing."
They didn't run.
Didn't charge.
Just walked right up to the bar like they already owned it.
The leader was tall, bearded, and wore a flannel jacket with the sleeves torn off. His eyes scanned Lira first slowly, like someone counting her body in ounces. Then Micah.
"Morning," the man said. His voice was fake-cheerful. The kind of smile you give before a mugging.
Micah didn't speak. He kept one hand on his waistband, close to his pistol.
Lira, on the other hand, stepped forward.
Smile soft. Head tilted.
She already knew the game.
"You look cold," she said sweetly.
The man blinked. "What?"
"You want warmth?" she asked, voice light. "Or food? Or maybe just a woman who won't scream if you get too close?"
That threw him off. He chuckled, confused.
Micah stiffened beside her, eyes flashing.
The other two with the man tensed.
Lira took another step forward.
"Here's the problem," she said, voice dropping. "You think I'm a girl. I'm not."
The man laughed, but it was nervous now. "Is that right?"
"I'm a storm in a crop top," she said.
And before he could blink....
She kneed him in the groin.
Hard.
He dropped like a sack of meat.
Micah moved instantly pistol up, eyes locked on the other two.
The second man raised a pipe. Micah shot him through the eye.
The woman screamed, dropped her weapon, and ran.
Lira stood over the gasping leader.
He curled in on himself, moaning, blood in his beard now.
She crouched, looked him in the eye.
"Next time you look at a woman like she's a hole," she whispered, "remember that even holes have teeth."
She stood.
And kicked him in the face.
They left five minutes later.
Took the dead man's jacket, food, and a half-loaded shotgun. Left the moaning one in the dust, without water, without shoes.
"I would've just shot them," Micah muttered as they walked.
"I know," Lira said.
"Why didn't you?"
She didn't answer for a while.
Then:
"Because dead men don't carry stories. But broken ones do. I want people to hear my name and feel their gut twist."
Micah glanced at her.
"You always been like this?"
"No," she said. "I was sweet once. I waited tables. Smiled for tips. Laughed when men got handsy. Said 'sorry' when I meant 'fuck you.'"
"What changed?"
She looked at him.
"Someone sold me for food."
He didn't speak after that.
He didn't need to.
They found a mall on Day Five.
Half-collapsed. Graffiti everywhere. A broken food court with scattered chairs and an old blood trail that led into the back.
Micah checked the perimeter.
Lira found a clothing store glass shattered, mannequins decapitated, dust over everything.
She walked through it like it was sacred.
Not because it was safe.
Because it reminded her of life before.
The mirrors.
The clothes.
The illusion of choice.
She stared at herself in the cracked glass.
Bloodstained jeans. Cropped black tee. Greasy hair tied back with a ripped shoelace. Boots two sizes too big.
Not pretty.
But dangerous.
And there was a kind of beauty in that.
She stripped.
Not out of shame. Not for pleasure.
Just necessity.
She found clean clothes on the floor. A fitted hoodie. Stretch leggings. Combat boots from a sports store down the hall. She tied a leather belt around her waist, tucked the stolen knife inside.
When she looked in the mirror again, she didn't see a victim.
She saw a weapon with lipstick.
And that made her smile.
Micah found her there, still buttoning her jacket.
"You good?" he asked.
She turned, gave him a slow once-over.
He was bruised, dusted, armed. A little blood on his collar. Looked like a villain in an old action movie. But his eyes were clear.
"I'm great," she said.
"You look different."
"I am."
He handed her a protein bar. "Eat. We move in twenty."
She took it. Bit into it slowly. Locked eyes with him while she chewed.
There was tension again. But not fear.
Something else.
Something hotter.
Micah cleared his throat. "Stop looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're going to eat me next."
Lira smiled.
"Maybe I will."