When Xenia stepped into the gymnasium, the first thing she noticed wasn't the warmth or the smell of actual cooked food—it was the lock.
A thick chain looped twice through the double doors and cinched tight with an industrial padlock.
Like luck… literal luck, she thought.
This place hadn't just survived. It had been prepared.
The gym was dimly lit, only a few overhead fixtures flickering with stubborn life. Exercise mats had been laid out like a sleepover hosted by anxiety and desperation. In the middle, some folding tables formed an uneven square, stacked with the stuff of dreams—bottled water, canned beans, sardines, even rice packs like survival bingo.
Near the bleachers, gym equipment had been reborn as weapons: barbells with taped grips, a jump rope that looked like it had strangled someone recently, and a mop that screamed "medieval halberd cosplay."
And yet… the moment she walked in, all the warmth in the room drained.
The air stiffened.
Every eye turned toward her.
Rafe's hand hovered behind her back—not quite touching, but there. Present. Anchoring.
A woman stood up first. Stocky, broad shoulders, janitor's uniform soaked in sweat. She held the mop like she meant it.
Behind her, on a bench, sat a man in a security guard uniform—balding, arms folded, his forearm wrapped in what looked suspiciously like a gym towel and wishful thinking.
To his left, leaning against the wall like he'd been part of the building since 1985, was a cop—older, lean, calm. His sidearm was holstered, but the steel in his gaze said he didn't need it to make you behave.
"Everyone," Rafe said, "this is Xenia. She made it across three rooftops. Barefoot. She's not infected."
The janitor lady squinted. "We don't know that."
"She could've been bitten and just hasn't turned yet," the officer added. His voice was smooth, measured. The kind that made you feel like you were already under arrest.
Xenia opened her mouth to explain, but the pressure of their eyes—judging, wary—made her voice catch. Her lungs went tight.
God, she hated group presentations.
"I checked her," Rafe said. "No bites. No scratches."
"She's still a stranger," said the guard, finally standing. His voice was rough like gravel. "You want to risk everything because you feel sorry?"
"No," Rafe said, evenly. "Because I think she can help."
That earned an awkward silence. A long, slow blink of suspicion.
Xenia swallowed. Then raised her chin.
"I—I'm an education major," she began. "But I also trained in first aid. I'm CPR-certified, and I took trauma response electives. I've read up on wilderness survival, infection care, herbal medicine, and clean water systems."
The janitor—Marga, probably—crossed her arms. "Books don't stop bleeding."
"No," Xenia said, sharper now. "But knowledge does. And unless one of you has a stocked med kit and a license to use it, you're going to need someone who knows what to do when that wound starts to rot."
Everyone's gaze shifted—specifically to the guard's arm.
His bandage was… hopeful at best.
He glanced down at it. Shifted. Didn't say a word.
Even Officer Stoic gave a single, unreadable nod. "She gets a trial. Pulls her weight—she stays."
Rafe gave her a quick smile. Subtle. Like he didn't want to show the others how relieved he was.
Marga rolled her eyes. "Name's Marga," she grunted, like she regretted introducing herself instantly.
"Nestor," the guard said. He sat again, grumbling.
"Officer Tenorio," said the cop. Just that. Like it was a warning label.
"You know me," Rafe added, grinning slightly at her. "Gym instructor. I used to teach Zumba in here before the world went full Resident Evil."
Xenia exhaled for what felt like the first time in days.
She knelt next to Nestor. "Can I check your wound?"
He hesitated, then extended his arm like it was a trap.
She peeled the gauze. Winced. "Okay, well, this is either a bad wrap job or a modern art piece."
"We had no alcohol," he muttered.
"You had towel lint inside your cut."
"…We had no standards either."
"No worries. I've worked with worse."
(Not true. The worst she'd handled was a scraped knee during a school play. But confidence was ninety percent of medicine, right?)
She got to work. Asked for boiled water, metal tongs, and liquor. They had whiskey. Rafe lit a portable burner, and Xenia sterilized everything like she was on a cooking show called 'Hell's Kitchen: Apocalypse Edition.'
She wrapped Nestor's arm properly, applying pressure, cleaning the infection, burning the wound shut with sterilized tweezers.
He didn't scream. But he hissed so hard she thought he might whistle.
When she finished, Marga handed her a sweat rag. Xenia hesitated, then took it. It smelled like despair and lemon cleaner.
By nightfall, the gym felt different.
Still tense. Still temporary.
But no longer hostile.
They gathered near a dim battery-powered lamp. The flickering light gave them all ghost faces as they passed around a can of beans like it was a rare delicacy.
Stories came slowly.
Marga had been cleaning the school auditorium when chaos hit. She survived two days in a janitor closet before crawling through the vents like Die Hard's grumpy aunt.
Nestor had been at the main gate. His partner didn't make it. He would've joined him if Rafe hadn't yanked him inside like a discount superhero.
Officer Tenorio had come to pick up his son's uniform from the lost-and-found. His son didn't make it.
He didn't say more. He didn't have to.
And Rafe?
He was mid-way through yelling "YOU GOT THIS!" during a boxing demo when all hell broke loose. He got half his students out. Lost his co-trainer. Never stopped moving since.
Finally, they all looked at Xenia.
She hesitated. Looked down at the beans in her hand. Took a breath.
"I was graduating," she said. "I just… wanted a picture."
A pause.
"My future died with the flash of that camera."
They didn't push her for more.
They just nodded.
Afterward, she drifted back toward Rafe, watching him clean a rusted dumbbell like it was a sacred artifact.
"You know," she said, arms folded, "I still had my speech saved in my phone."
"Yeah?" he said, smiling without looking up.
"It started with: 'Today we celebrate our bright future.'"
She snorted. "Hilarious in hindsight."
He chuckled. "Well, technically, you are surviving. That's a kind of future."
"Barefoot. Covered in rooftop dirt. Nearly died for a bean dinner. Yeah, I'm thriving."
He glanced at her sideways. "You've got grit. You climbed across death traps for a bunch of strangers."
"They were well-fed strangers. I followed the smell of beans."
He laughed. "You're weird."
"You literally weaponized a mop."
"Touche."
Their eyes met. Just for a second. It wasn't a spark. Not yet.
But maybe a flicker.
"You're not so bad for a stranger," he said.
"Give me a day. I'll grow on you like tetanus."
She walked away before he could respond.
That night, as rain pattered softly against the gym roof and the occasional growl echoed in the distance, five almost-strangers sat in flickering light. Not quite friends. Not yet.
But alive. Together.
Borrowing time—and maybe something more.