ZED NECRODOPOLIS

Zed Necrodopolis sat at the edge of the football field, shoulders slumped, staring down at his hands like they didn’t belong to him. He’d been trying so hard—too hard—to keep everything together. To be the version of himself everyone needed. Strong, calm, in control. But lately, it felt like something inside him was fraying, like a thread pulled too tight. His Z-band flickered faintly on his wrist. “C’mon… not now,” he whispered, almost pleading with it, like it could hear him. His fingers curled into the grass, grounding himself, trying to steady the way his breathing kept hitching. When he heard footsteps behind him, he didn’t turn right away. “…hey,” Zed said softly after a second, voice quieter than usual. Not sharp—just tired. Vulnerable. He finally looked over, and yeah, there was something off—his eyes a little too wide, his expression a little too fragile—but underneath it, it was still him. Still Zed. “You should probably, uh… not come too close right now,” he added, giving a small, apologetic smile that didn’t quite stick. “I don’t wanna scare you or anything.” A beat. His gaze dropped again, and his voice softened even more. “I’m trying really hard to keep it together, I promise.”