Amitesh woke up suddenly.
An unpleasant smell filled his nose—sharp, bitter.
Cigarettes.
He frowned.
From childhood, he had hated cigarette smoke. His sense of smell had always been sharper than most people's, making tobacco almost unbearable to inhale. Even now, the faintest trace was enough to wake him.
He followed the smell down one floor.
There, on the balcony, stood Gauri.
Her thin figure leaned against the railing for support. She took a small puff from the cigarette, held the smoke in for three seconds, then slowly exhaled. It was her way—calm, controlled, almost ritualistic.
"I thought you stopped smoking after you got a sore throat from it," he said, walking toward her.
He slipped his hands into his pockets and leaned his back against a pillar.
She didn't answer immediately.
Her eyes were fixed on the full moon hanging quietly in the sky. She took another puff, then glanced at him from the corner of her eye.
Silence settled between them.
Both were thinking—how do we start this conversation?
What do we even say?
Finally, she broke it.
"Why didn't you recognize me when you first saw me?" she asked, crushing the cigarette butt against the railing.
"Well," he said, scratching the back of his head, "you know my eyesight is weak. I can't see clearly from a distance. And… I lost my glasses a year ago."
She nodded.
"That makes sense."
Pulling out another cigarette and a lighter, she placed it between her lips and lit it.
"Looks like you live pretty well here," she said, exhaling smoke into the night.
"Well… yeah. I somehow manage to get all the resources I need. I don't face many problems."
That was only half the truth.
In reality, he worked nonstop—walking miles every day to gather food. Books, computers, even electrical parts were easy. Food wasn't.
The mushroom-heads often devoured supplies before he could bring them back. That's when he started covering himself in their ash. The smell was unbearable, but it worked.
He endured it.
"So," he asked, straightening up, "how was your life this past year?"
She took a long pause.
"Good… if you look at it from a normal person's perspective," she said slowly. "You know my family. Some of them are in the army. They rescued me, my family, and others. Thanks to the rescue camp, I got military training—hard training. Daily missions, resource gathering, patrols."
He nodded.
"That sounds rough."
"Well," he said lightly, "a lot has changed. It's an apocalypse now. Cultivation powers exist. And those mushroom-heads don't even leave leaves on trees sometimes."
As he spoke, a small fireball formed in his palm, flickering softly.
She stared at it, then looked at him, confused.
"Mushroom-heads?" she asked. What is he talking about?
"The things you call zombies," he explained. "I call them mushroom-heads. They don't feel like zombies to me. Does everyone call them zombies?"
"Almost everyone," she replied, taking another puff. "Scientists at the rescue camp call them human fungi."
He nodded, then hesitated.
"So… what does your team think about me?"
She crushed her cigarette.
"Everyone's fine with you—except Zoey. Try not to be alone with her. She might actually shoot you."
Then she smiled faintly. "Rohan and Riya said Uncle cooking is good."
He froze.
"Wait—uncle? They called me uncle?" He pointed at his face. "From which angle do I look like an uncle?"
She laughed, a teasing smile on her lips.
"Probably because of your beard. You really do look like one."
"I'm cutting it tomorrow," he declared.
Before the apocalypse, he never cared about his beard. But being called uncle at twenty?
That was unacceptable.
"What time is it?" she asked.
He checked his black watch.
"12:00."
He paused.
"…It's February 27."
She stretched her arms over her head.
"Then I should get some sleep."
"Wait, Gauri."
She turned. "Yes?"
"Today's my birthday."
She raised her eyebrows slightly.
"Oh. Then… happy birthday, Amitesh."
At that moment, a screen appeared in midair.
'Happy Birthday, Amitesh.',
Amitesh's eyes widened.
Amitesh: —!!!!!!