Chapter 2: The New Girl’s Challenge

I let my lips tremble, eyes going soft. It was almost too easy. “I can’t just ignore the weak.” I hugged the kitten close. It mewed, as if agreeing.

Jace smiled helplessly, no anger in his eyes.

He shook his head, but the corners of his mouth twitched upward. He was used to this by now—my little rebellions.

Because Jace was someone I’d saved, too.

He owed me his life, and we both knew it. There was a bond between us, unspoken and unbreakable.

“I know you’re kind, but I don’t want you getting hurt because of it.”

He brushed a stray hair from my face, gentle as a summer breeze. His concern settled over me, heavy and warm.

When I nodded softly, Jace finally relaxed. He took my hand and led me toward the safe zone.

His grip was reassuring, but tension still radiated from his shoulders. The world outside was never truly safe.

An eyeball rolled to my feet, slick and fresh from the monster’s mouth.

It landed with a wet plop, trailing viscous fluid. I stared at it for a moment, strangely fascinated.

Turning away, and where Jace couldn’t see, I flashed the eyeball a dazzling smile.

My lips curled, and for a split second, I let my mask slip—just for the monster, just for me.

If you want to show your kindness and vulnerability, then at the start of the story, you have to save a cat.

It’s practically a rule, right? Everyone roots for the girl who saves a kitten. The audience eats that up.

In 2053, the apocalypse hit. Monsters everywhere. Humanity shrank to a fifth of its former size. At the same time, some people awakened supernatural powers.

The year was supposed to be the future—hovercars, Mars colonies, world peace. Instead, the world ended in blood and screams.

I’m one of those ability holders—a lonely little wildflower in the apocalypse. Innocent, fragile, or so they say.

That’s the label they give me. The girl with the sad eyes and soft voice. The one who never turns anyone away.

I escaped the research lab and wandered alone through a world crawling with monsters.

The lab was cold, sterile, stinking of bleach and fear. I still have scars on my wrists from the restraints. I ran when the alarms blared and monsters broke through the doors.

I met Jace not long after. He was half-dead, blood soaking his clothes black.

Curled up behind a dumpster, barely breathing. I almost passed him by, but something in his eyes made me stop.

I saved him and tended his wounds.

I used the last of my medical supplies, hands steady as I stitched him up. He watched me in silence, haunted eyes following my every move.

I shared my food with him, went out for supplies, hunted small animals for him.

Rats, squirrels—whatever I could catch. I learned to cook over a trash fire, to make a meal out of scraps and hope. Sometimes I wondered how I’d become so good at surviving on so little.

After days of careful care, Jace recovered. The first thing he saw when he woke was my gentle, watery eyes.

He blinked, disoriented. I smiled at him. That was the start.

In the apocalypse, people who hold on to their humanity are rare.

Most become hard, brittle. They stop meeting your gaze. They forget how to be kind.

But if someone is as pure as fresh snow—soft, untouched—people call them a "saint."

It’s not a compliment. It’s a warning.

Saints don’t last long in hell.

So what if I’m a saint? Does that mean I should only care about myself and sacrifice others just to survive?

Who gets to decide what’s worth saving? Who draws the line between mercy and weakness?

Why is kindness despised?

I ask myself that every night, staring up at the cracked ceiling of whatever shelter we’ve found. Why does the world hate the gentle ones?

After Jace recovered, he traveled with me. Along the way, we saved many—not just other ability holders, but wounded ordinary people, too.

We became a team. I couldn’t do it alone, and neither could he. Together, we built something like hope.

Together, we built a safe zone, protecting those in need while the world burned.

It wasn’t much—just a patch of ground with a fence and a promise. But people came, and they stayed. That made it real. I stood by the gate sometimes, just watching them live.

Jace held my hand in one, dragging a duffel bag with the other—cans of food, bottles of water clanking with every step.

The bag thumped against his leg, cans rattling like bones. He never complained.

I hugged the sleeping kitten, my eyes drifting to Jace’s bleeding palm.

A thin line of blood trailed down his wrist, staining the bag’s handle. I frowned, concern flickering across my face.

“Jace, you’re still bleeding...”

I reached out, brushing his hand with my fingers. His skin burned beneath my touch, the cut an angry red.

Jace smiled at me, trying to brush it off. “It’s nothing, Mara. Just a scratch.”

He tried to sound tough, but I saw the pain in his eyes.

“If you don’t treat it, it’ll get infected.” I stopped, gently set the kitten down, fished a clean handkerchief from my backpack, and wrapped his palm with practiced care.

My hands were gentle, sure. I tied the knot just tight enough to stop the bleeding, not so tight it hurt.

“All right, let’s go.” I scooped up the kitten again, smiling, but just then lost my balance and toppled into Jace’s arms.

My foot caught on a crack in the sidewalk. Oops. The world spun, and suddenly I was pressed against Jace’s chest, his heartbeat thudding in my ear.

The kitten, startled by the commotion, mewed and leapt onto Jace’s shoulder.

Its claws dug in, but Jace just grinned, shaking his head at our little circus.

“Meeting you in the apocalypse—what are the odds?” Jace whispered, lips near my ear.

His breath was warm, words softer than I’d ever heard. For a heartbeat, the world felt almost normal.

He cupped my face, and just as he leaned in, the kitten on his shoulder swiped his cheek with a claw.

Jace yelped, jerking back. A thin red line bloomed on his cheek. The kitten looked smug, tail twitching.

Jace recoiled, rubbing his face, while the kitten, victorious, leapt back into my arms.

I couldn’t help laughing at Jace’s wounded glare at the kitten.

It was the first real laugh I’d had in weeks—a bright, ringing sound bouncing off empty buildings. For a moment, it almost felt like the world hadn’t ended.

While Jace sulked at the kitten, we made our way back to the safe zone.

The safe zone was built inside an abandoned high school. In the early days, a few other ability holders and I scavenged supplies, building a wall from scrap metal and wood.

We used whatever we could find—old lockers, baseball bats, even the school bus. The place looked like a patchwork fortress, but it worked.

We raised chickens and grew vegetables in the old baseball field. At first, only Jace and a handful of ability holders lived here, but as I kept bringing back ordinary people, it slowly grew into a community.

The field was muddy, the rows crooked, but the sight of green things growing gave people hope. The chickens clucked and scratched, oblivious to the world outside the fence.