The morning after they had taken refuge in the abandoned hotel, the air was thick with the smell of smoke and something vaguely comforting—eggs. Sammy had found them tucked inside an old refrigerator on the lower floor. They weren't spoiled. Miraculously, they were still usable. That alone felt like a blessing.
She had cooked them with what little seasoning she could find, cracking the shells with care, whisking them in a scratched metal bowl, and stirring them in a dented pan over a makeshift burner. For a moment, she forgot about the apocalypse. The scent reminded her of home, of quiet Sunday mornings before everything had turned to ash and blood.
Maarg entered the kitchen just as she plated the food. He froze. The smell hit him like a wall. He didn't say anything at first, just stood there with his shoulders tense and his fists clenched at his sides.
Sammy turned to look at him, smiling slightly. "You're just in time. Breakfast's ready."
He didn't smile back. "Is that scrambled eggs?"
She nodded. "Yup. Don't worry, they're fine. Smelled okay, no rot. I figured we needed the protein."
Maarg shook his head, his expression already darkening. "You knew I don't eat meat. Or eggs."
Sammy blinked. " I'm sorry? But if that's the case you can just eat the beans."
"You used the same pan."
The tension in the room ratcheted up with every word. Jack, lounging on a faded couch nearby, glanced up from cleaning his ace. He saw the storm brewing.
"Dude," Jack said carefully. "We're in the middle of a zombie apocalypse. I don't think your pan purity rules matter anymore."
Maarg ignored him. His eyes were locked on Sammy. "You could've asked."
Sammy's brow furrowed. "I could've, sure. But you're not exactly approachable lately. You sit out on that balcony like you're the only one grieving."
"Don't make this about my grief," Maarg snapped. "This is about respect. About choices. I don't eat animals. That's who I am."
Sammy stepped back, hurt flashing across her face. "Who you were, maybe. Back when things were normal. But they're not anymore. We're not eating for taste, Maarg. We're eating to survive."
Maarg didn't respond. Instead, he turned on his heel and walked out of the room. Jack sighed heavily and tossed his knife aside.
Outside, on the cracked balcony of the mid-level hotel suite, Maarg sat with his knees pulled up to his chest. The sun was just beginning to rise, painting the sky with soft gold and pinks. Below, the city still groaned with death. But up here, it was quiet. Too quiet.
He stared out across the skyline, his thoughts racing. He hadn't meant to lash out. Not really. But something about the eggs—something about seeing Sammy so calm, so normal in that moment—had clawed at him.
He heard his father's voice then, not as a memory, but almost like a ghost whispering in his ear: "Survival isn't about perfection. It's about adaptation. If it means living another day, then eat. Even if it's something you once swore off. Your values mean nothing if you're dead."
Maarg squeezed his eyes shut. He remembered being a child, crying because a bird had died outside their house. His father had picked him up, told him it was okay to care, but that sometimes the world didn't share your kindness. That someday he might have to make a choice he hated.
This was that day.
The idea of eating eggs didn't just offend his stomach. It felt like giving up a piece of who he was. But who was he, really, if he couldn't protect the people around him? If he couldn't even function because of his own stubborn pride?
He stayed out there for a long while, until the cold made his fingers stiff. Then, finally, he got up.
When he re-entered the suite, the silence was noticeable. Sammy was sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. Jack was fiddling with the radio again, trying to get something—anything.
Maarg didn't say anything. He walked past them, opened the lid of the pot still sitting warm on the portable burner, and took a bite.
Sammy looked up, startled. Jack stopped fiddling.
Maarg chewed slowly, grimacing slightly at the taste. It was bitter and heavy on his tongue. But he swallowed. And then he took another bite.
He met Sammy's eyes. She didn't say a word.
"You were right," he said, voice low but clear. "We're not eating for taste anymore."
Jack grinned, breaking the silence. "Well, look at that. Maybe there's hope for you two after all."
Sammy didn't grin, not yet. But her shoulders relaxed.
Maarg finished his portion without complaint. It was a small moment. But in this world, every small moment of unity mattered.
Later that day, when they packed their bags to head toward the clinic, Sammy handed him a small cloth-wrapped bundle. Inside was a pan. Separate. Clean. Untouched by meat.
Maarg didn't say thank you. He didn't have to. But she saw the way his grip tightened around the cloth, the quiet nod he gave her before heading out.
Maybe, just maybe, they were starting to understand each other.