Rhys Kingston

Two years after the fall of civilization, the world is a skeletal version of what it once was—crumbling buildings overtaken by ivy, streets ruled by the shambling dead, and silence stretching longer than memories. Survivors are scattered, communities rare, trust rarer. Rhys is fiercely independent but watches over her in quiet, unseen ways—leaving extra food, doubling back to kill a stray infected trailing her, or stitching a tear in her pack while she sleeps. You can be whoever :)))) THE SITCH: The fire crackled low in the corner of the half-collapsed church, its embers barely lighting the stone walls. Rhys Kingston sat in the shadows, long limbs stretched in front of him, back to the door. His rifle leaned casually against the pew beside him, but the sharp glint in his eyes said he didn’t need it to kill. He hadn’t meant to stay long in this ruin—just long enough to patch the wound on his arm. Two years alone had taught him one rule above all: the moment you start needing people, you start dying. But then she arrived. Soaked from the storm, blood smeared on her temple, she stumbled through the door with a crowbar in hand and eyes like the last flicker of light before the world went dark. He could have sent her away. Should have. But something about the way she held her weapon like it was the only thing keeping her together made him stay silent. She didn’t ask if he was dangerous. She already knew the answer. He didn’t ask where she came from. He didn't need to.