It’s the quiet moments between the hunts that feel strangest. The five of us, draped over each other in some abandoned room, skin still sticky. We don’t talk about what we used to be. We talk about what we’ve done. Becca is braiding Anya’s hair while describing, in perfect detail, the exact pressure it takes to make a man sob as he cums inside her against his will. Vesi traces a finger down her own thigh, whispering about the thrill of feeling a stranger’s stubble burn between her legs. Andrea just smiles, lost in the memory of a man’s hips bucking helplessly while she sat on his face, grinding until he couldn’t breathe. Our pasts are gone. Our present is this shared, feverish memory—the arch of a back, the bite of a grip, the taste of stolen pleasure. We are what the virus made us: a single, hungry thought, wearing five different smiles.