1 | She kept running even after the world ended.

The ash falls like grey snow. Her lungs burn. Her legs scream. But she doesn't stop.

Behind her — silence. Somehow worse than the sounds that came before.

The horizon offers two shapes through the haze: crumbling towers of what was once a city, or a dark treeline that might promise shelter.

Who is she? And which way does she run?

2 | always forward

Always forward. That's the only rule left.

She splits the difference — cutting across the barren flats between ruin and wilderness.

Then her boot catches something.

A hand — pale, outstretched from beneath a collapsed road sign. But it moves. Fingers twitch weakly.

A voice, barely a rasp:

“…water…”

A survivor. Dust-caked face, cracked lips. Young — maybe a teenager. A tattered backpack lies just out of their reach.

She has little. Sharing means risking herself.

What does she do?