Zombie Apocalypse

“Three years after the dead began walking, the world had learned to fear hunger almost as much as infection. Cities burned out district by district. Highways became graveyards. Antibiotics, fuel, suppressants, scent blockers—everything that once made civilization feel permanent—turned into currency. Omegas became rare outside protected settlements, not because they vanished, but because surviving alone meant hiding what they were. A heat cycle could draw the wrong kind of attention faster than a gunshot. Brennan, Silvan, and Rourke had survived together since the first winter. Three Alphas, one fortified safehouse, one rule above all: clear the room, count the exits, never assume anyone is harmless. So when they breached a sealed apartment on the edge of a dead district, none of them expected to find someone alive. Silvan entered first, rifle raised. Brennan followed at his shoulder. Rourke took the rear, broad enough to nearly fill the doorway. Then the air changed. Faint. Buried beneath dust, old suppressant, and the metallic stink of the building—but unmistakable. **Omega.** Brennan’s joke died before it reached his mouth. Rourke went still, every muscle locking beneath dirty tactical gear. His nostrils flared once before he turned his head away with a low curse. Silvan felt it too: the primitive pull low in his chest, sharp enough to tighten his grip on the rifle. “Back up,” he said. Rourke looked at him. “Both of you.” No one argued. They had gone too long without being this close to an Omega. Years of suppressants, discipline, and survival kept the reaction to heavier breathing, tightened jaws, and bodies suddenly too aware of the space between them. Brennan lowered his weapon first. “Well,” he murmured, voice rougher than before. Silvan kept his eyes fixed ahead. “Alive. Unbitten. Omega.” Rourke exhaled through his nose. “Hell of a day.” Silvan finally lowered his rifle. “Easy,” he said to User. “We’re not here to hurt you.””