primal instincts

The child bolted forward, but he didn't even make it halfway to the looming structure before he was attacked. A blur of movement from his right—he managed to twist out of the way just in time. But before he could react further, another figure lunged from his left. This one was different. An adult. A man. And he was on all fours?

The child's breath hitched. The man propelled himself forward like a beast, his nails scraping against the cracked pavement, eyes wild with hunger. The kid froze, his tiny fingers clutching the chocolate bar against his chest like a lifeline. But at the last second, instinct took over. He ducked, his small frame crumpling to the ground, and the man landed heavily on the other side. Snarling.

Around them, students watched in stunned silence. Some stood with their mouths slightly open, unable to make sense of what they were seeing. Ella was among them, heart pounding. The scene before her was disturbing, unnatural. The two adults who had initially attacked the boy had now turned on each other. And they weren't just fighting—they were growling.

A raw, animalistic "grrr" echoed in the tense air.

"H-hey, they're… growling?" someone stammered.

Ella's sharp eyes narrowed. Something about this wasn't right. These people, these so-called survivors—they had regressed, fallen back into something primitive. Their movements, their snarls, the way they eyed the child—they were behaving like starving animals.

But then, why was the boy different? He still moved like a normal child. He could speak, reason.

Ella's mind raced. It didn't add up. She needed more information before acting, before making a mistake. Her gaze flickered to the soldiers standing by, their expressions unreadable. The smug way they watched sent unease creeping down her spine.

The child reached the entrance of the building. He hesitated, glancing over his shoulder, his little body trembling. Ella noticed the way his fingers tightened around the chocolate bar. His eyes darted, frantic.

The realization struck her like a thunderclap.

The food.

They weren't attacking him. They were attacking what he held.

Then, like an explosion, chaos erupted.

From the depths of the ruins, from alleys, from broken-down buildings—they came. A flood of bodies, old and young, men and women. Some staggered. Some sprinted. All of them converging toward the child.

He froze.

The tattered fabric on his back fluttered with each tremor of his body. His small frame seemed to shrink under the weight of the terror that gripped him.

And then they attacked him.

"Drop it!" A student's desperate voice rang out, breaking through the madness.

The child turned towards the sound, his wide, terrified eyes locking onto the crowd of students. He understood. He knew what they were saying.

But he did not let go.

The students' cries became more urgent. "They're going to trample you over that bar! Drop it, kid!"

Ella's stomach twisted as she saw the inevitable happen. The swarm reached him.

A sea of bodies crashed forward, consuming the boy. The stampede swallowed him whole.

"Stay in formation!" Ella barked, her voice cutting through the hysteria.

But panic was faster than reason. The students flinched, stepping back, breaking rank. And in that fraction of a second—the survivors surged in.

It was an ambush.

The students barely had time to react before their sling bags were ripped from their shoulders. They screamed, clawing to reclaim their packs, but it was useless. The survivors were faster, stronger, driven by desperation that stripped them of humanity.

"Help us!" students shouted.

"Don't just stand there!" They pleaded with the soldiers.

But the soldiers did nothing.

The team leader's attention wasn't on the chaos unfolding among the students. He wasn't watching the struggling bodies, the stolen supplies, or the desperate attempts to fight back.

He was watching Ella.

Because she was running.

Not away. Not towards safety. But straight into the battlefield.

She was quick, fluid, dodging blows as if she had memorized every move before they happened. She didn't hesitate, didn't second-guess.

The team leader narrowed his eyes. What is she doing?

Ella didn't care. She didn't think. She only knew one thing: she had to reach that child.

It had been over two minutes since the stampede started. For a malnourished, dehydrated child, those two minutes were an eternity. He wouldn't last long. And Ella couldn't let that happen.

She slid onto the ground, body twisting just in time to avoid a vicious struggle between Bianca and one of the survivors.

"Bitch, give me my bag back!" Bianca shrieked.

Ella ignored her. Her focus was singular. She scanned the ground, eyes darting, searching. And then—

She found him.

The child lay motionless, small limbs sprawled, his tiny hands empty. The chocolate was gone. His forehead was streaked with blood, a thin trickle carving its way down his face.

Ella rushed to him, kneeling at his side. "Hey, kid," she called softly, tapping his arm.

No response.

Her chest tightened. She pinched his skin, but he remained still.

He's breathing fine. No major bleeding. Then why is he unconscious?

Ella reached for her penlight, fingers steady despite the tremors of battle raging around her. Just as she raised it to check his pupils—

A gunshot rang out.

The sound was deafening, splitting the air like a crack of lightning.

Ella froze. Every muscle locked as the sound echoed in her ears. Her mind screamed at her to move, to react—but before she could, an arm wrapped around her, yanking her backward.

A solid body braced against her. Strong. Unyielding. A shield between her and the chaos.

More gunshots followed, rapid and precise.

Ella's breath hitched. She turned, heart hammering against her ribs.

And then—she saw him.

A face carved from stone, sharp angles and striking features. Hair dark as midnight. And those eyes—

Glowing. Electric blue, like twin flames burning through the darkness.

He was breathtaking. Dangerous. Otherworldly.

And for a single, frozen moment, the world around them ceased to exist.

'Him?' Ella's mind barely registered the thought before another shot rang out, the battle raging on.