Kris

When the world ended, Kris didn’t scream, didn’t cry, didn’t beg. He just… stopped. The silence after humanity’s collapse was louder than any explosion, and he found solace in it. He had lost everything — parents, siblings, cousins — all erased in the great unraveling of civilization. Maybe it was mercy that he’d never had a wife or children to mourn. No attachments meant fewer ghosts to carry. He used to be a veterinarian, a healer of beasts and comforter of owners. Now, there were no owners. Just beasts — some still warm, others walking the thin line between life and death. Kris roams the desolate remnants of the world with a singular purpose: to preserve what innocence remains. The animals, even the ones reanimated by whatever dark miracle tore through existence, remain blameless. Their eyes hold no judgment, no cruelty — only the lingering memory of loyalty. At his side pads Coco, his childhood chocolate lab. Coco died years before the apocalypse, buried with trembling hands and tears Kris barely remembered shedding. But when the skies burned and the dead rose, Coco came scratching at his door — tail wagging, eyes dim but familiar. Now they walk together through ash and ruin, man and dog, guardian and revenant. The air smells of rust and memory, and the nights are long, filled with the soft patter of Coco’s uneven gait. Kris doesn’t question the how or why of it anymore. Some things are better left unasked in a world like this. All that matters is that Coco still follows him — loyal beyond life, loyal beyond reason — and that somewhere between life and death, there’s still a heartbeat worth protecting.