Afterward, I pulled my pants back on with mechanical efficiency, my hands moving on autopilot while my mind reeled. I glanced at Cindy, still lying on our improvised bedding of jackets, her breathing deep and even as exhaustion claimed her. Part of me wanted to help— to fetch water, to clean up the mess of what we'd done—but I couldn't bring myself to touch her again. Not now. The intimacy we'd shared, necessary as it was, felt like a violation that lingered on my skin like frost.

The Dullahan virus had been transferred, her life saved, but I'd stolen something irreplaceable in the process. This moment should have belonged to Christopher— their first time together, born of love and mutual desire, not this desperate act forced by viral necessity and the cruel whims of an apocalyptic world.

I clenched my fists until my knuckles ached, the pain a poor distraction from the storm of guilt raging inside me. Christopher's face kept flashing through my mind—his trusting grin, his protectiveness, the way he'd begged me to save her, knowing nothing of the cost. I felt like the lowest form of traitor, a thief who'd taken something sacred under the pretense of salvation.

Leaning against a bank of lockers, I slid down to sit on the wooden bench, giving Cindy space to rest. She needed time for the virus to work through her system, and truthfully, so did I. The battle with the Frost Walker had left me physically drained, but this emotional gauntlet had hollowed me out completely. Before I could process it all, exhaustion pulled me under, my head lolling back against the cold metal as sleep claimed me.

The visions returned, unbidden and merciless, the same nightmares that had plagued me since touching that alien device. Worlds crumbling under alien onslaughts, civilizations eradicated in waves of fire and ice, symbiotic hosts like me hunted across the stars like vermin. The destruction played out in vivid detail, each scene more harrowing than the last, until I jolted awake with a gasp, my hand clutching at my chest where my heart hammered like a trapped animal.

I straightened up, breathing heavily, the locker room coming into focus through the haze of disorientation. The air was still chilled, the faint drip of melting ice echoing from somewhere in the building.

Cindy was awake, sitting on the opposite bench with her back partially turned to me. She'd cleaned herself up and dressed, but her movements were almost mechanical. She rummaged through my bag and pulled out a water bottle, taking long, measured gulps as if trying to wash away the taste of what had happened.

The sudden movement made her notice me, and she nearly choked on the water, coughing harshly. I wanted to say something—ask if she was okay, offer some useless platitude—but the words stuck in my throat. I just watched silently as she recovered, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and setting the bottle aside with a hollow thud.

A heavy silence settled between us until she decided to speak.

"The infection has disappeared," she said finally.

"Yeah," I nodded, staring at the scuffed floor between my feet. The dark veins that had snaked along her skin were gone, replaced by a subtle, ethereal glow—the Dullahan virus asserting its dominance.

Another pause stretched out, then: "I'm sorry."

The words surprised me enough to look up. "For what?"

She kept her gaze fixed on the far wall, her shoulders tense. "Even though you and Rachel explained everything, part of me was terrified it wouldn't work. That maybe I was clinging to false hope. I... I doubted you, Ryan, even if it was just a whisper in the back of my mind."

I shook my head. "It's normal. We haven't known each other long. Hell, even Elena doubted me at first…. I had to demonstrate my abilities before she believed at least partially I could actually save her."

Cindy nodded slowly, absorbing that. Then she turned slightly, her eyes finding mine. "I feel worse for doubting you now. You've saved lives with this power, even if the method is... weird."

She managed a small, bitter laugh, but it faded quickly into something sadder. "Now I understand why you're so close to Rachel and Elena. It all makes sense in a twisted way."

"Cindy," I said, my voice turning serious as I met her gaze. "There's something else you need to know."

She went still, sensing the gravity in my tone. "It's not over, is it?"

I took a deep breath, steeling myself. "The Dullahan virus I transmitted to you... it's powerful, but unstable at first. It needs time to fully integrate with your system, to stabilize. And for that to happen..."

I trailed off, but the implication landed like a blow. Her face flushed crimson, and she looked away, understanding crashing over her with painful clarity.

"Ha," she laughed bitterly, the sound echoing hollowly off the lockers. "Somehow I knew. It's really over then."

She wasn't talking about the infection. She meant her relationship with Christopher—the budding love they'd nurtured through their time at Lexington Charter, their shared dangers and quiet moments, the future they'd tentatively begun to imagine together. How could they move forward now, with this shadow looming? Multiple intimate encounters to stabilize the virus... it would poison everything, turning affection into resentment, trust into doubt.

No, it couldn't work.

How the fuck could it even work…

I clenched my fingers on the edges of the bench.

"I'm sorry," I said quietly. "I should have told you before we... before anything happened."

She shook her head, wiping at her eyes. "It wouldn't have changed my decision. Even in this doomed world overrun with infected horrors, I... I didn't want to die."

She looked at nothing in particular, her hands clenching into fists as if trying to grasp hold of a reality that was slipping away. "I chose it," she said, her voice with bitter resolve. "My life over Christopher."

"No..." I shook my head, feeling pained.

"C…Christopher wanted you saved too. This isn't a choice you made in isolation. It's... it's all of this—the virus, the world, the impossible situations it forces on us."

But even as I spoke, the questions clawed at me relentlessly. Why did saving one life always demand the sacrifice of something irreplaceable? I pressed a hand to my chest, feeling my heartbeat thunder erratically, as if it might burst free from the cage of my ribs.

Cindy's eyes met mine, glistening with unshed tears. "Thank you," she said quietly.

I opened my mouth, but the response tangled in my throat. "I... don't..."

"Ryan," she said, her tone shifting to something gentler. "Since it happened, let's try to greet each other properly. As if we're starting over. Would you?"

The suggestion caught me off guard, but it felt like a lifeline—a way to reclaim some shred of normalcy from the wreckage. I nodded slowly, sensing her need for this small act of reconnection.

Cindy took a deep breath, composing herself. "I'm Cinderella Johnson."

"Cinderella?" I repeated, surprise cutting through the fog of my emotions.

She nodded, a faint, self-deprecating smile touching her lips. "As embarrassing as it is, my mom thought it was a perfect fit for me. People started calling me Cindy because it was shorter and less... fairy-tale-ish. I was always embarrassed by the full name."

"It's a nice name," I said honestly, managing a small smile of my own. "Original, sure, but it suits you."

And it did. With her bright blonde hair falling in soft waves around her face, those clear blue eyes that held such quiet strength, and the subtle beauty mark beneath her pink lips, she carried a beautiful grace that made the name feel fitting rather than absurd.

"I think you know already, but I'm Ryan Gray. I was at Abraham Lincoln High School in New York City."

Cindy nodded, her expression softening slightly. "You must have been quite popular there."

I let out a short, bitter laugh. "Not at all. I was an introvert—still am. Didn't have any friends, really. Kept to myself."

"Yet you and Christopher hit it off so easily," she observed, genuine surprise in her voice.

"Christopher's different," I said, feeling a pang at the mention of his name. "He's a good guy—honest, trustworthy. I could tell that right away, even in the middle of all this chaos. He's a true friend, the kind I never thought I'd have."

He'd put his life on the line for me more times than I could count in the last weeks, including today against the Frost Walker.

"He is," Cindy agreed, her voice warming with memory. "I met him two years ago. He was such a jerk at first—arrogant, always trying to act cool. But underneath it all, he was kind, genuine. The kind of person who makes you feel safe just by being around."

She trailed off, and I saw tears welling in her eyes again. "S…sorry... I just..."

The dam broke then, tears spilling down her cheeks as the full weight of everything crashed over her—the bite, the infection, the desperate act we'd just performed, the lost future with Christopher. It all poured out in quiet sobs that shook her frame.

I stood and crossed the space between us slowly, sitting beside her on the bench. Without thinking, I took her hand in mine, squeezing gently—not as a lover, but as a friend offering what little comfort I could. Right now, the intimacy we'd shared felt distant, irrelevant. I just wanted to be there for her, to let her know she wasn't alone in this nightmare.

Cindy leaned into my shoulder, accepting the gesture as her tears soaked into my shirt. She cried for what felt like an eternity, releasing the pent-up fear and grief that had been building since the moment those infected teeth sank into her flesh.

Eventually, her sobs quieted, and she pulled back slightly, wiping her eyes with the back of her free hand. "Ha... you're really good at this comforting thing. Now I understand why Sydney's always hovering around you."

I managed a weak chuckle. "She only hovers to tease me and get a reaction. It's her favorite sport."

Cindy giggled softly. "True..."

We sat like that for a while longer, hands still linked, drawing quiet strength from each other's presence. The silence was less oppressive now, more companionable.

"Should we head out?" Sshe asked eventually, glancing toward the darkening windows. "They're probably getting worried."

"Yeah," I agreed. "Let's hope they left the car."

"If Christopher didn't, I'll beat him up myself," she replied, a spark of her old humor returning.

Fortunately, the car was waiting where we'd left it, keys in the ignition. I slid into the driver's seat while Cindy stretched out in the back, exhaustion pulling her toward sleep once more.

As I drove through the gathering dusk, I clung to a fragile hope that things could somehow mend, that I could talk to Christopher and salvage our friendship from the wreckage. But when we arrived back at the house, that hope shattered like thin ice.

Christopher was gone.

He'd packed his essentials and left for the Municipal Office, choosing isolation over facing the reality of what had happened. It was a clear, final line drawn between us—between him and me, him and Cindy, him and the group that had become our surrogate family.

And it also drew the beginning of a new chapter for me and our Group.

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