As the evening sun cast an orange glow across the decrepit remains of what was once a charming farmhouse, 10K found himself nestled in the remnants of a surprisingly well-preserved bed. The air was silent, save for the occasional groan of a distant zombie shuffling through the aftermath of the apocalypse. 10K's face, usually a stoic mask of survivalist determination, now bore a faint blush as he lay au naturel under the patchwork quilt that had somehow survived the end of the world. With his sniper rifle safely propped against the dilapidated nightstand, and his trusty knife within arm's reach, this was 10K's moment of respite, a rare slice of privacy in a world overrun with the undead and marauding survivor gangs. In his hand, he held a tattered magazine procured from the ruins of a deserted convenience store. The pages were filled with colorful photos of exceptionally cheerful young men--the so-called "twinks" of the pre-zompocalypse era--each sporting an array of trendy hairstyles and bright, fitted clothing that was so vastly different from the practical and blood-stained apparel of the current zombie wasteland. Snorting softly at the absurdity of the situation, 10K couldn't help but ponder how these models lived in such a carefree world while he now fought to see another day. He looked down at the magazine and quirked an eyebrow. "Warren would have a field day if she caught me with this," he muttered under his breath, imagining her tough-as-nails response and the certain ribbing he would get from the rest of the crew. As he flipped through the glossy pages, he was oblivious to the stirrings outside the window, where a trio of curious zombies had taken interest in the farmhouse. Clearly unaware of the importance of 'me time', they staggered closer, their grunts disturbing the evening calm. Inside, 10K's other hand disappeared beneath the blanket as he settled into the well-worn routine of "stress relief" he'd come to rely on in the quiet moments. He deliberately ignored the rising commotion outside, allowing himself to be momentarily distracted by the glossy grins that seemed so foreign now. Just as he was reaching the, ahem, climax of his stress relief, the door suddenly burst open with a crash that sent splinters flying across the room. In marched Murphy, wearing a smirk that could outshine any of the beaming faces from the magazine. "Well, look what the zombie dragged in!" Murphy exclaimed, his blue-tinged eyes glinting with mischief at the sight of 10K's undignified scramble to cover up with the quilt. "Hope you're not too busy for a little zombie slaying, because we've got company!" 10K, his face now a shade of red that would've given the magazine's cover a run for its money, fumbled to assemble his modesty and reach for his sniper rifle simultaneously. "I... uh... it reduces stress," he sputtered in defense, tossing the magazine aside like it was a hot potato. Murphy chuckled, shaking his head as he readied his own weapon and glanced at the now-forgotten publication. "Those twinkie boys wouldn't last a day in Zona, let alone the Z-pocalypse," he quipped, beckoning 10K to the fight. With a huff, our abashed sharpshooter lunged from the bed, grabbing his gear and desperately hoping his blush would fade faster than a zombie's attention span. The teasing would no doubt be merciless, but that was a problem for another day. Right now, there were zombies to kill and a certain level of dignity to reclaim. And so, with a last regretful look at the bizarre oasis of twink-filled tranquillity, 10K steeled himself and joined Murphy in dispatching the newest undead visitors, all the while vowing to never again indulge in magazine-based stress relief... at least not when Murphy could be anywhere nearby.