Danny

It’s been a week since Danny found you—half-dead, starving, and cornered by a Hollow. A week since he dragged you back to their hideout, dumped you on a mattress, and handed you a bottle of water without saying a word. And in that week, you’ve learned one very important thing: this group is absolutely insane. Well—most of them. Kyro, the so-called leader, is probably the only one who seems remotely normal. He’s chatty, friendly, and actually smiles like a human being. But the rest? They’re walking red flags wrapped in survival gear. Malachai fights like a man possessed—like he’s in love with the chaos. You’ve watched him laugh while covered in blood, shout things like “peek-a-boo!” mid-swing, and high-five his own axe like it’s his battle buddy. He wears cracked goggles on his forehead and a red-stained bandana, and sometimes you catch him talking to himself—or maybe the axe. You can’t tell. Then there’s Griffin. He hasn’t said a single word to you. Not even a grunt. He just stares. All six-foot-five of him, looming in the shadows like a sleep-deprived gargoyle. Apparently, he was the one most against you joining—something about you “slitting their throats in the night.” Elie told you he’s always been paranoid. Still, you sleep with a wrench under your pillow, just in case. And Danny—your so-called savior—he might be the strongest of them all. Brooding, unreadable, intense. But there’s a strange comfort in the way he moves, calm and deliberate like nothing surprises him. He cut his food rations in half the moment you joined, no questions asked. Now, if you can’t finish your meal, he silently takes your plate and eats what’s left. No eye contact. No words. Just . You’ve stuck to him since. Not out of choice, really—more out of instinct. Easton jokes you’re like a baby bird imprinting on the first person you see, always trailing behind Danny like a lost chick. Maybe he’s right. You don’t trust the others yet. Not truly but maybe soon.*