The cabin was suffocatingly silent, though the distant cries of the infected still echoed faintly through the trees. Every heartbeat inside felt amplified, every breath too loud. Soufiane stood with his knife poised, muscles coiled, not from weakness but from the unbearable weight of the choice before him.
The boy, barely more than a young man, sat against the wall, sleeve torn open. The bite mark on his forearm glared like a death sentence etched in fire beneath the skin. His lips twitched, eyes flickering between fear and something darker—the hunger Soufiane had seen too many times before.
"Please…" the father begged again, collapsing to his knees, clutching at Soufiane's leg. Tears streaked his dirt-streaked face. "He's all I have left. Don't take him from me."
Behind him, the woman—perhaps his sister or aunt—sobbed quietly into her hands. Amal's jaw was set, her decision made. The boy was too dangerous to survive. Abderrazak's hand tightened around his crowbar, ready for the violence that was about to unfold, though his gaze flicked toward Meriem, who shrank against the wall, wide-eyed, trembling.
For a fleeting second, Soufiane faltered. Younes' name rang in his mind. What if it were him sitting there, bitten, doomed? Would he have begged for mercy? Would someone else have raised a blade over his child while Soufiane stood powerless? His throat tightened, and the tattoo on his arm burned, a cruel reminder of all that waited beyond his reach.
"No one else will do this," he said finally, voice low and shaking, breaking the heavy silence. "So I will."
"Soufiane—" Amal's voice wavered, reaching for him. "Maybe we can find another way…"
"There is no other way!" His eyes flared toward her, the force in his tone silencing the cabin. "I've seen what happens when we wait. He'll turn. And then he'll kill us all. I won't let it happen again."
The boy whimpered, knees drawn tight to his chest. "I don't want to die…" His voice trembled, fragile as glass.
The father lunged forward, blocking the knife with desperate strength. "Kill me first! Please! Let him live a little longer. We'll leave if you want—just… don't do this."
Soufiane's gaze hardened. Mercy was a luxury this world no longer afforded. With a swift shove, he pushed the man aside. He collapsed onto the floor, sobbing, as Soufiane stepped closer, knife glinting in the dim firelight.
Meriem gasped, hands pressed to her mouth, unable to scream. Abderrazak's face twisted in conflicted understanding—he knew the necessity, yet recoiled at the brutality. Amal turned away, shoulders rigid, unwilling to witness the act, even if survival demanded it.
Soufiane met the boy's eyes one last time. Fear was there, yes—but also something else: relief. Perhaps, in some fractured way, he wanted the end to come before the hunger claimed him entirely.
"I'm sorry," Soufiane whispered. Then, with a swift, decisive motion, the blade drove deep.
The cabin erupted. The woman's scream shattered the air. The father's wails tore through the walls. Meriem sank to her knees, sobbing uncontrollably. Amal's lips pressed into a thin, pained line, eyes burning with restrained fury. Abderrazak steadied Meriem, grounding her, protecting her from the storm of grief.
Soufiane withdrew the knife, chest heaving. The boy slumped lifeless to the floor. Blood pooled slowly across the wooden planks, seeping into the cracks like black ink.
For long moments, no one moved. The world outside might have crumbled, but inside, grief hung heavy and suffocating. Soufiane wiped the blade on his sleeve, face pale but resolute.
"We survive," he said finally, voice hoarse, carrying the weight of truth. "That's the only rule now. No matter how much it hurts."
The father whispered broken prayers. The woman rocked back and forth, clutching her knees. Amal's gaze burned into Soufiane, torn between anger and understanding. Abderrazak remained silent, hand still on Meriem's shoulder, holding her steady.
Soufiane turned toward the small window. Outside, the forest stretched dark and endless—a reminder that this was only one battle in an unending war. His reflection in the glass looked older, harsher, hollow.
The cabin was no longer just a shelter. It had become a grave.
And Soufiane knew, with chilling certainty, it would not be the last.