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SHE IS ABOUT to leave when he wakes up.

They've spent a third of the day together but it is still not enough. When his other self does not need her, he needs her. But now, he sees something like premonition on her face—a hint of fear in her eyes, masked by a brave smile.

Seeing him awake, she reaches out to brush his hair back. Her touch is gentle, too gentle, and he doesn't miss the way her fingers tremble. "Go back to sleep," she says softly.

He catches her hand before she can withdraw it. Dread prickles down his spine—he knows what day it is. Today is the day his other self will deliver the Antigen, and she will go with him. But today is also five days before he'll wake up in the Dark Ages.

He knows, he knows, that something will happen in these five days. Something that will result in her not being in his future. No matter how much he tries to change it or stop it, it will happen. But he'll be damned if he doesn't at least try.

"Don't go," he pleads. He'll get down on his knees and beg if that will stop her from leaving.

"I have to. He's leaving to deliver the Antigen soon, and the docks are a dangerous place. I have to follow him to make sure that he's safe."

Panic bubbles in his chest. Always, always, she is putting him first, with a complete lack of preservation for herself. He should be grateful for that, but swift frustration directed at his other self blinds him.

"Forget about him!" he hisses, pushing himself up and raking a hand through his hair in agitation. "Forget about me! I'm alive, aren't I?"

"Yes, but—"

"You are the one who's missing in the future. Not me. I've made it through the Dark Ages and survived, but you may not have. So why won't you just listen to me for once and stay here, where it's safe, instead of going out to protect that sorry bastard who couldn't even protect you in the first place?"

She flinches; a flash of hurt glimpsing her face that he thinks he might've finally done it. Finally hit a raw nerve and pissed her off. Everything's been so utterly perfect between them that him fucking it all up was only an inevitability. He opens his mouth to apologize, only for her to speak first.

"You know that's not how it works," she says quietly. "You can keep me in this house until the past catches up with the future. But if I'm not there in the future, then something will still happen that would take me away from it. The zombies could break in, or the government could send a bomb squad to this town. Anything could happen."

He falls silent at that. He knows she's right, damn her. But that doesn't make it hurt any less. He wants to wrap her in his arms and carry her off somewhere, far away, where nothing—nothing—can ever hurt her.

"But even if I can't fight my fate, I can still make my own choices," she adds, when he doesn't say anything. "And I'm choosing to go with him to the docks. Because even though I can't keep myself safe, I can still keep him—you—safe."

He closes his eyes and drags in a painful breath. Is this what love entails—to let the one you love go, even if it kills you? He feels it already—every fissure of his heart ripping apart even though he hasn't lost her yet.

Slowly, he opens his eyes and exhales. "Just..." Don't go, don't go, don't go. "...try to come back to me, alright?"

She closes the spaces between them to press her lips to his. He kisses her back—hard, bruising, desperate—drugging himself on the taste of her tongue and the softness of her lips. When at last she pulls back, he makes a strangled sound in his throat and tries to follow her.

She holds him back with a hand on his cheek, and presses one last kiss to the corner of his mouth. "I'll try my best to come back to you," she whispers. "I promise."

The moment she closes the door behind her, he bolts up.

It's a mad scramble for his shoes, his coat, and his gun. He's agreed to let her go—but he's never said anything about not following her. He waits another five minutes so as to give her some headway, then leaves her lab and heads out of the house.

This is the first time in this jump that he's going outside. For awhile, he's forgotten how the shadows cling to him like mildew to grass, how the stale scent of blood and rotten flesh lingers in the air. He shivers, pulls the hood of his borrowed coat over his head, then snaps the safety catch off his gun.

Finally, two streets down, he catches a glimpse of her. Dressed in a simple t-shirt, jeans and boots, she looks the very epitome of damsel in distress. He almost wants to yell at her for leaving the house without a weapon—what is she going to do, charm the zombies with her lovely smile? But then the faltering streetlamp reflects the gleam of metal strapped to her back, and he stops.

Oh.

Apparently, while his weapon-of-choice is a revolver, hers is a rifle.

He blinks, thoroughly impressed, and continues to follow her. Every step she takes, every corner she turns, he keeps his gun aimed ahead, making sure that it's empty and safe. A rusty sign five streets down points to the docks, and it's not before long that he finds himself standing in front of a looming building. The building, old and crumbling, leads out to a small pier. There's not a boat in sight, but he suspects there will be. He takes a step inside and glances around, his eyes swiftly adjusting to his surroundings.

There, standing on the pier, is his other self. She's hidden some distance away, keeping a lookout for him. Satisfied with her current position, he stands by the entrance of the building. The other Taehyung doesn't know that she's there, but she doesn't know that he's there. This is the way it is between them. She'll always have his back, as he has hers.

He takes a deep breath and steadies his gun, just as he hears a growl.

It comes from right behind him.

A chill shoots down his spine. Immediately, he twists around, only to find a dead creature lunging for him. He lets out a horrified gasp, snatches himself away from its teeth, then fumbles for the gun when it drops to the ground amidst the scuffle.

It's not supposed to be this way.

The thought rips through him as he dives to the ground, in a frantic bid to locate his gun. It's not supposed to go like this. She was the one who was in danger, not him.

Unless...unless...

Two shots ring out in rapid fire. The zombie collapses several feet away from him, but on the heels of its keening wail come more—snarls and growls that remind him he's still in the Dark Ages, it's not over yet, and come on, Taehyung, get the fuck up and fight.

He scans the floor for his gun, but it's too dark. It must've slipped somewhere beneath one of these old cars. He wants to hunt around for it, but each second brings them closer to him. To them. They are all in danger here.

He yanks a medium-sized plank off the ground. Splinters stab through his palms; he ignores the pain and swings it at two of the zombies closest to him. It does little to deter them. What they lack in smarts and speed they make up for in brute strength. He drives the pointed end right through a zombie, hears it gurgle and sputter.

One down. Too many more to go.

Just as he's reaching for another plank, a clang of metal skitters across the floor. It stops inches away from his feet. The rifle. He looks up. Across the room, he finds her. Pale-faced and terrified, barely illuminated by the moonlight. She's snuck out of her hiding place at the sound of his fighting, and now she stands weaponless because her weapon is with him.

Shit.

He wants to scream at her for it, to rush over and give it back. Instead, he does the first thing that comes to mind. He grabs the gun, curls his fingers around the trigger, and shoots the nearest zombie right in the face. If I kill them all, we'll be safe, right?

...right?

He doesn't think. He aims and shoots, aims and shoots. The shadows make everything that much harder to see, but he's become one with the darkness as he moves to a vantage point behind a row of cars. They're his last line of defence, that and the rifle in his hands.

In the distance, he hears a series of shots mingling with his. His other self. He glances towards the pier. The other Taehyung hasn't seen him yet, but he has seen the zombies. Twisted into a steady stance that is the spitting image his own, his other self calmly takes down one zombie after another.

That is the moment the thread unravels.

A lumbering, hulking mass surges towards his other self. Its jaws wide, teeth bloodied, ignited by a sheer hunger for human flesh. This creature moves faster than most, careening at a pace too furious to escape from.

For a fraction of a second, he sees the could-have-been of his other self. Teeth sinking into his outstretched arm, a flash of searing pain that flays every fibre of his being, the shattering realization that I am one of them.

He lifts the gun, takes aim, ready to protect his other self.

She does it first.

In a flash, she dashes towards his other self and shoves him away to stand directly in the line of fire. He pulls the trigger, sending the bullet flying right into the zombie's heart.

But not before its teeth sink into her back.