CHAPTER 26: A PLEA FOR A FALTERING FAMILY

Cassel — POV

They stepped out from behind our vehicles.

To be precise—they weren’t just a group. It was painfully clear they were a family.

The oldest among them was a man and a woman who must have once carried great dignity. Now their hair was threaded with gray, their faces carved with age and exhaustion, yet their features still held a gentleness—a softness you didn’t see anymore. Not in this world. Not after everything had burned and rotted and collapsed into chaos.

The apocalypse wasn’t a place for kindness. It wasn’t a place for humanity. It had stripped people down to their ugliest instincts.

I’d seen it all.

Parents selling their own children for a stale piece of bread.

Husbands murdering husbands for a handful of supplies. I’d even seen a man butcher and eat what remained of his family because hunger had hollowed him into something less than human.

So seeing this family—this intact, united group—standing before us felt almost unreal.

The father supported a heavily pregnant woman whose breath came in shallow pained gasps, her belly so swollen she couldn’t even look ahead. The older couple hovered protectively around them. And then there was the boy—somewhere between ten and fourteen—thin, pale, and trembling in that way children do when they’re trying desperately not to.

But it was his hands that caught my attention.

Because the flames still burned there.

"You little thing," Henry said sharply. "Throwing fireballs at us—aren’t you afraid we’ll kill you? Huh?"

Henry’s tone was light, almost mocking, but I knew him well. He wasn’t joking. He was pressing, testing, letting the boy feel the danger he’d just walked into.

Henry never belittled enemies—not for age, not for weakness, not for anything. If he sounded casual, it meant he was measuring how far he could push.

The boy, however, didn’t shrink away. Whether he was older mentally than he appeared, or simply too desperate, he met Henry’s stare with surprising steadiness.

"We need a doctor," he said. "My mother’s about to give birth."

Beside me, I felt Rosalia try to slip out of my grip. Instinctively, I tightened my hold around her waist.

The boy’s gaze flicked to the movement—and to me. In that instant, he decided exactly who the leader was.

Henry continued, stepping forward. "Oh? And what exactly are you offering for our help? Considering you just threw a fireball at us—and I still haven’t settled that issue—why should we save you?"

This time, fear finally broke through the boy’s composure. Just a flicker—but enough.

Maybe it was my presence that frightened him more than Henry’s words. Maybe my stillness, my refusal, my silence. Or maybe he simply realized what any sane person would realize—that attacking strangers and then begging them for help was a suicidal strategy.

Behind us, our doctor was busy. He always wore his apron and stethoscope, always prepared. None of us had major wounds, but days of travel left us with plenty of minor cuts, bruises, and injuries. We’d dealt with hostile survivors, thieves, and would-be raiders. Not everyone survived the world with their morality intact.

Some of our group were ex-soldiers—people who still clung to honor even when it had no place left. They disliked killing, even when provoked. That hesitation usually left injuries in their wake—injuries the medic now tended to with practiced hands.

And seeing him working... the family’s eyes lit up. Hope—fragile, almost painful—sparked there.

"I... I wanted to show my worth," the boy said, voice shrinking. He was beginning to realize how foolish he’d been. "You were arguing for a long time. I thought you wouldn’t stop. I was in a hurry. I wanted to show you my strength... that I could be useful. I can kill zombies. I can control fire—I control it well. I’ll serve you if you help my mother and my little sister. She hasn’t been born yet. Please."

Then, without hesitation, he dropped to his knees.

And slammed his forehead against the ground.

Not something you see every day.

Despite the anger burning in my chest—anger that had nearly driven me to kill them when that fireball skimmed too close to Rosalia—I could tell the attack had been desperate, not murderous.

Or maybe...

Maybe the sight of them—their unity, their fear, their fierce love—pulled at something inside me. Something I didn’t like acknowledging.

Because I had seen a real family before. Not mine, but others. I had seen bonds that could survive even the end of the world.

And I had never belonged to anything like that.

The father was silently crying as he held his nearly unconscious wife upright. The elderly couple, despite the dirt on their clothes and the exhaustion in their limbs, rushed to the boy, wrapped him in their shaking arms, and broke into tears of their own.

Then they knelt beside him.

"Please, sir... please help us."

"Please..."

They were offering their price. Their service. Their loyalty. They’re everything.

They weren’t naïve to the world—not entirely. But they still believed in asking. In bargaining. In pleading. They still believed help existed somewhere.

A rare belief these days.

Their desperation, their tears, their fear for each other... it chipped away at the last remnants of the fury I’d been holding.

And somewhere in that quiet moment, an unexpected emotion twisted inside me—envy.

A warmth suddenly spread across my left hand.

The hand I’d placed around Rosalia’s waist.

Her small fingers gently rested atop mine, warm and soft, offering comfort without saying a word.

I turned to look at her.

Rosalia was watching me carefully, as if she could see past my expression, past the mask, straight into whatever ache had surfaced inside me.

This girl—fragile, young, seemingly delicate—always saw the things I tried to bury. I could present coldness, indifference, composure, but she always noticed the faintest tremble of sadness beneath it.

Her clear, beautiful face softened.

Then, in a quiet voice that was sweet and full of love and pleading she said:

"Let’s help them, Cassel."