Ivan started his day as he had for the past few weeks, with a routine that felt increasingly desperate. He woke up in the stifling air of his cramped apartment, the weight of isolation pressing down on him. The first thing he did, like clockwork, was reach for the bottle of alcohol on the counter. His hands trembled slightly as he poured a small amount onto his palm, rubbing it into his skin until the sharp scent filled his nostrils. He was running low. That fact lingered in his mind, adding to the list of problems he couldn’t ignore.

Sighing, Ivan grabbed a pair of plastic gloves from the box beside the sink. The material felt fragile between his fingers, as if it might tear any second. Another reminder that his supplies were dwindling, and he needed to make each decision count. The walls of his apartment had begun to feel like they were closing in, boredom hanging over him like a fog.

His footsteps echoed in the small space as he moved to his corner of food supplies, what was left of them anyway. The usual comforting sight of noodles was gone, leaving a knot in his stomach. His eyes drifted to the side, where the can of dog food Lucy had given him sat.

He picked it up, turning it over in his hands. "Don't judge a book by its cover..." he muttered to himself, knowing he was lying. Still, hunger gnawed at him.

Grimacing, Ivan grabbed a spoon and opened the can. The smell hit him hard—sour and metallic. He gagged, pulling away, but hunger forced him to bring the spoon closer. He hesitated just as it neared his lips. His hand shook, a cold sweat forming on his forehead. He couldn’t do it. His body refused. After several failed attempts, he lightly touched the food with his tongue. The taste was worse than he’d imagined.

He rushed to the balcony, retching, the sourness of bile in his mouth as he leaned over the railing. “No way that’s gonna happen… just no way,” he muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

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After catching his breath, Ivan returned inside. His gaze fell on the clothes he had laid out: a thick white jacket with a hoodie, black jeans, and rubber shoes. His eyes stopped on his grandfather's leather gloves. He ran a thumb over the worn material, remembering when they were given to him at 15. Back then, they were a symbol of freedom, of carefree days riding bikes through the city. Now, they were just another piece of survival gear.

Along with the clothes were the practical things: a pair of glasses he used to wear for style, a worn face mask, and a bag for carrying items. Then came the makeshift weapons—a screwdriver, a sharpened broomstick, and a kitchen knife.

"Hey, you there?" Ivan called out, his voice more strained than he intended, as his hand gripped the walkie-talkie tightly. The familiar hiss of static followed, filling the apartment's silence like an eerie companion.

After a few moments, Lucy’s voice crackled through, sounding distant and tired. “What’s up?”

Ivan swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his decision press against his chest. “I’m going outside,” he said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. His tone was steady, but anxiety threaded through his words, a tremor just beneath the surface.

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There was a pause—long enough for Ivan to imagine her rolling her eyes, maybe shaking her head in disbelief. Then, without warning, Lucy burst out laughing. The sound was loud and jarring, almost mocking. "HAHAHAHA, funny joke, man!" she said, her laughter cutting through the static like a knife.

But Ivan’s expression remained serious, his jaw tightening. He stared at the ground, his fingers clenched around the walkie-talkie. “I’m not joking,” he said, his voice firm despite the storm of emotions swirling inside him.

The laughter on the other end died abruptly, replaced by a heavy silence. He could almost feel Lucy’s shift in energy, the concern creeping into her tone as she processed his words.

"I can tell you’ve made up your mind," she said, her tone dropping into something more serious. "But what the hell is your plan? Please don't tell me you're just going out there to run headlong into a pack of infected."

Ivan exhaled, long and slow, trying to calm the nerves bubbling just under his skin. “I’ve got some stuff that can probably help me, but I need you the most,” he said, forcing the words out.

There was another pause, longer this time. When Lucy spoke again, her voice was tinged with surprise, a mix of confusion and curiosity. "What? Why do you need me?"

“I need you to be my guide. Use your drone to find a safe room I can reach through the balconies,” Ivan said, his voice steady but hopeful. He needed her support; without it, the risk of going outside felt like certain death.

Lucy hesitated, her voice filled with frustration and concern. "That drone is almost dead, Ivan. I can’t use it in the hallways, and what about those infected? How are you going to handle that?"

"I’ll take care of it," Ivan said, though the words came out with less confidence than he intended. His eyes flicked to the pile of gear he had prepared: the thick jacket, the makeshift weapons. His stomach twisted, the uncertainty of his plan settling deep in his gut.

“Bullshit,” Lucy snapped, her anger rising as her voice cut through the static. “You’ll just get jumped by dozens of infected. You know how dangerous it is out there. This isn't a game, Ivan!”

Ivan closed his eyes, gripping the walkie-talkie tighter. “Look,” he said, trying to keep his voice level, “we’ll have to get out of here sooner or later, so why not take a step now? Please, just help me out.” His voice cracked slightly at the end, betraying the fear he was trying so hard to hide.

There was another silence, the air heavy with tension. When Lucy spoke again, her voice had softened, the anger replaced by a quiet concern. "That's a lot to ask for. If you die, I'll be partially responsible for that, you know?"

“I won’t haunt you if I die,” Ivan joked weakly, a small attempt to lighten the mood. His lips twitched in a half-hearted smile. “I promise.”

"Fuck you," Lucy shot back, but Ivan could hear the slight smile in her voice, the tension easing ever so slightly.

He chuckled, the sound almost foreign to his ears. For a brief moment, the weight of the situation lifted, the crushing reality replaced by something resembling normalcy.

But then Lucy’s voice grew serious again. “Look, before you do this, you should know that the drone's battery is at 10%. Once it dies, I won't be any more help to you. You got that?”

Ivan nodded, even though she couldn’t see him. “If you don’t spot any safe room, I won’t go. I promise.”

"Great! Stay safe, alright?" Lucy added, her voice softer now, tinged with an emotion she didn’t often show—worry, maybe fear.

“Yes, ma’am,” Ivan replied, his voice tinged with relief. He had made his decision, and now, there was no turning back.

He set the walkie-talkie down, his heart thudding in his chest as he stood in the middle of his apartment, staring at the door that had kept him separated from the outside world. The jacket, the gloves, the makeshift weapons—they were all waiting for him.